As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings. You are not my husband. Annabel shook her head. “We have scarcely mentioned your name. "In case he should consent—" "He never will," interrupted Winifred. "Leave him to me," he said. ‘You have said you do not wish to marry me,’ she accused. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. .
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