“Why not?” He asked. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. He bent over to Anna at once. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. Maybe others that I do not know about. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. ” An immense gulf seemed to open between father and daughter as he said these words. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. He drew her close up to him with a strong, steady pull.
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