“My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. "Your voice seems familiar to me—and—but I'm getting a little deaf—and my eyes don't serve me quite so well as they used to do, especially by this light. I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I please. I never let her read stories, or have pets, dolls. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child.
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