But I waited in vain. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. The door popped open with a sigh. Then he sensed the trap. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. The thought of Capes flooded her being like long-veiled sunlight breaking again through clouds. I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head.
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