He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. He had grabbed a tiny remote control and flew the thing around the table, landing it there and turning it off. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us.
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