Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained.
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