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. ‘Mary was indeed naïve, but there I should
say the similarity ends. But in the appendix of
the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray,
Hawthorne, Lytton. ’
His face changed, all the humour and tenderness leaving it in an instant. He will be dependent on you. Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not
take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she
escaped him here. It seemed at first the most beautiful afternoon of all time to her, and perhaps
the thrill of her excitement did add a distinctive and culminating keenness to the
day. I
would be the kidnapper, of course, but we would forge
ransom notes and exchange monies so that it appeared
you were taken by brigands or plotters against the Iovelli
family. The touch of her hands was
pleasurable. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. She looked away.
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