He pushed her to the step of the car and, reaching over her shoulder, jerked open the door.
“My car—is here,” she said.
He did not reply, but shoved her headlong into the limousine. She fell on hands and knees, and he did not help her to arise. She scrambled to her feet and sat in the corner of the seat, pressing as far away from her father as possible, avoiding any contact with him. He shut the door with a slam and was silent except for his noisy breathing.
Both of them looked straight ahead, and no word was spoken during the drive to their home. When the car stopped and the chauffeur opened the door, von Essen lumbered out and stood waiting.
“Get out,” he said, roughly, not offering to assist her.
She stepped out, drawing away from him as she passed, and ran up the steps.
“Wait,” he commanded, and she stopped. He approached her and reached again for her arm, but she avoided him.
“Don’t touch me!... Don’t dare to touch me!” she panted.
“Go to your room,” he ordered. “Don’t leave it without my permission, or I’ll lock you in.... Don’t leave this house again. Don’t step out of the door. If you do—”
She turned and walked away from him. She wanted to run, but would not allow herself to run. She walked slowly, shoulders squared, head up proudly. She did not hurry as she traversed the hall and ascended the stairs, nor as she opened the door of her room. She entered, closed the door gently—and locked it. Then she stood quite still, white and slender, with a look on her face not good to see on the face of a young girl. Her fists were clenched, her arms held tense and straight at her sides. There was no tear or sign of tear in her eyes. She looked not like a living flame now, but like a slender image of steel heated to whiteness.