"Anne vs. Roger Barton, incompatibility."
She laid the paper back on the rack. "Yes, it's true. Roger and I have separated."
The old man took the paper and tried to tear it, but it only rustled in his futile striving. He pulled at it and shook his head and then, with a supreme effort, tore it and rising a few inches in his chair, waved the torn pieces uncertainly.
"I—won't—have—it—do you—hear—you sha'n't—do—this." His thick muttering choked him and Hilda began to cry.
"Don't, papa, don't. It isn't good for you. Annie will explain."
The old man cried with her, at first helplessly like a child, then more violently. Anne took the torn paper from him and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Be quiet, papa."
He shook her hold from him and again tried to speak. The contortion was terrible. Hilda put her arms about him, the effort strangled in a sob and Hilda held him close.
"There, there," she murmured, "don't cry, papa."
As she held him the sobs lessened. Anne stood looking at them, this extraordinary sight of her mother comforting her father, both of them locked together beyond her, opposing her; with every scrap of their strength clutching their own peace.