“Leave them!” He yelled. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. It was the incendiary intellectuals of the bourgeoisie, with their militant ideas of revolution, who had raised the populace to a pitch of violence resulting in cases of wholesale slaughter—such as had overtaken the Valades. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. The boy was bright and inquisitive as he was subtle. “You!” said Ann Veronica.
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