"Now, John, be careful. Aside from the awful effect the whole thing has had on poor Ann, there may be no real sin committed."
"Aside from the effect on our Ann? My God! how much more sin could a man commit unless he had ruined her reputation—and if he had done that——" and John Rutledge arose and paced the floor.
"But he didn't. How can you let such a thought come into your head about Ann? Don't get yourself all worked up over a straw man."
"Straw man?" he exclaimed angrily. "Is it a straw man that our Ann laughs no more? Is it a straw man that we never hear her singing home across the bluffs? Is it a straw man that her sweet face has been taking on lines of worry, ill fitting the face of Ann Rutledge? Is it a straw man that she was forced into a promise to keep a secret—a dishonorable secret—from her own father and mother? There's no straw man about any such thing as this."
John Rutledge sat down and lit his pipe. After it was smoking well, Mrs. Rutledge said, "What shall I say to Ann?"
"Tell Ann to come to me," he said shortly.
Mrs. Rutledge went out, and a moment later Ann came. When she entered the room her father was standing with his back to the fireplace, his hands behind him.
"Yes, father," she said quietly.
John Rutledge surveyed her a moment. What he was thinking of she had not time to consider, but the expression on his face seemed to be a combination of wrath and pity, of love and outraged justice.