Anna thrust hers into her pocket unopened, and for the first time left the house without a smile upon her face. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing.
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