Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. He understood. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. He had not remembered her as looking so small. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. However, it don't signify. Over here, there was generally some unusual twist to a case. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears.
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