“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me. That is why I am here. What sort of a human being are you, anyhow?" Enschede gazed seaward. My arm's nearly well again. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. It is not well that a daughter should talk to her father as Ruth talked to hers that day. "By my shoul!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips, "dat ish goot—very goot.
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