She had finally managed to start breaking him down. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. He laughed suddenly, and released her.
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