“Ah, Barrington! Nice fellow! Did he say anything about my book?”
She was on tenterhooks to be by herself. “He’ll call tomorrow.”
“Have you been running, daughter? You seem out of breath. I’ve a minute or two to spare; come and sit down. Tell me what you’ve been doing. Did Barrington say whether that book of mine had gone to press?”
She backed slowly to the threshold and stood with the handle in her hand.
“I’ve a headache, father.”
She opened the door and fled.
Locking herself in her room, she flung herself on the bed and lay rigid in the darkness, shaken with sobbing. Pressing her lips against the pillow to stifle the sound, she commenced in a desperate whisper, “Oh God, give him to me. Dear God, let me have him. Oh God, give——”