Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. Ann Veronica listened thoughtfully, with her eyes on the turf, and now and then she asked a question or looked up to discuss a point. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. I never see them, they never even call. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. Let him not bear the weight of my punishment.
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