"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. She was introduced, perhaps a little too obviously for her taste, as a girl who was standing out against her people, to a gathering that consisted of a very old lady with an extremely wrinkled skin and a deep voice who was wearing what appeared to Ann Veronica’s inexperienced eye to be an antimacassar upon her head, a shy, blond young man with a narrow forehead and glasses, two undistinguished women in plain skirts and blouses, and a middle-aged couple, very fat and alike in black, Mr. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. ‘You didn’t understand it any better than I. ” Ann Veronica hesitated, and then stood in the open doorway and regarded her father’s stern presence. "Eggs for me! You mistake, child.
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