One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. Wood scarcely knew where he was. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. ‘You are really not helping matters, my friend. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. There was no answer. Then she and her husband went off to a Yorkshire practice, and had four more babies, none of whom photographed well, and so she passed beyond the sphere of Ann Veronica’s sympathies altogether.
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