“I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. 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. Capes smiled cheerfully with his eyes meeting hers. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. Like the parrot, she could memorize the lines, but she could not understand them. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH THE COLLAPSE OF THE PENITENT Part 1 Spring had held back that year until the dawn of May, and then spring and summer came with a rush together. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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