Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. Ennison kicked it away with his foot. In fact, Gerald had given order to the coachman to drive out of Golden Square and then stop around the corner. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son. I once saw a man die after collapsing that way. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict.
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