” Anna had suddenly stiffened. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. "Confusion!" cried he; "there is another boat in our wake.
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