“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. Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face. Spurlock knew exactly what he was doing, however: speculative mischief, to see how she would act. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. ’ ‘Eh bien, you are not a saint,’ Melusine snapped. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.
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