The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. 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. “Good-bye,” he said earnestly. " "Run along, then. Lucy was charmed; how peaceful the baby looked.
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