’ He sighed. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. The phone did not ring. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. ’ The full story—or as much as Gerald knew—of Valade’s machinations shocked the old lady so much that she was obliged to recruit her strength with a refill from the Madeira decanter. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. ’ ‘Don’t count on it.
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