Why, Nab, you shake as if you'd got an ague?" he added, turning to the Jew, whose teeth chattered audibly. “But, dear, think! He is your father. 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. Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica.
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