As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. Her father—man of rock—had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even if he did not love her, would always be needing her. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. Consternation gripped him.
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