His eyes were red. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Ann Veronica said nothing. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. He kept his keen eyes steadily fixed on Thames, as if awaiting to be addressed. They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path. His first reaction had been explosive as the hurts of the past rose up to taunt him. I want to give myself to you. It is not well that a daughter should talk to her father as Ruth talked to hers that day.
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