“Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. He could only wonder that this amazing thing had remained so long a secret to him. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. It was horrible. I have no intention of allowing you to depart in a hurry. ’ Then all at once remembrance made her smile.
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