Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. It would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. I’m leaving you, and you can’t stop me. They unloaded Michelle’s sleeping parents who had been propped up in the back seat, necks craned against each other. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. The door was locked; but, with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open.
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