Harley's hand slammed down on the table. He wrestled his heavy body up out of his chair, stamped halfway across the room toward her and stopped.
"Young lady, I'm not going to have this. I'm not going to have anything like this! You hear? You want to get tangled up with him? My God, you've been communicating with him for a year?"
"Whenever I was able to," Joyce said hoarsely, looking at the floor.
"Joyce!" He came to her, reached down and lifted her chin. "Joyce, you're not—you're not in love with this—this creature!"
She nodded, suddenly angered at her weakness, angered at the wetness in her eyes.
"Oh, my God!" Harley raised his arms, brought them down with a slap against his thighs. He turned away from her. He glared at his wife, who was drifting nervously up out of her chair. He turned back to Joyce. "You're not serious. You can't be. This can't—this just can't happen to us. You'll have to get this foolishness out of your head right now. Right this minute. My God, the next thing you know, you'll be wanting to marry one of those things."
"I do...." The sound barely came out. She swallowed, forced her voice up. "I am going to marry him."
A blast of silence swept the room, but, strangely, the shock of it didn't touch her. All at once, she was calm, quiet. She had said it, and now she was armored against everything.
"No," her father was saying dully. "No, Joyce. No."