"What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. ‘He could have little comfort there, indeed. His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song.
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