His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. He had changed her life dramatically, and she had missed him dreadfully. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. Take my child to—it is—oh God!—I am sinking—take it—take it!" "Where?" shouted Wood. " "But it is the sight of you!" "All right, Hoddy. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. 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. ‘Difficult, I grant you. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Killed is too kind a word. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. Her father—man of rock—had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even if he did not love her, would always be needing her.
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