Wood in the deepest mourning. Part 5 Ann Veronica’s resolve to have things out with her father was not accomplished without difficulty. . . He could not possibly lunge in the confined space, and so had nothing to do but back himself into the chapel as fast as he could. She refused to sleep in the same room with him one night, kicking him in the shins. It was very much like a real house, with one central stalagmite that looked like a column and a waterfall that served when she wanted to bathe. Her nerves were shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. He was mad. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face.
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