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. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. Nothing else was put in their place, and they remained sotto voce, as it were, in his mind. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure. She had worried in fear that the excitement would be too much for him.
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