He thumped with his heavy fists. Confused and trembling she unsealed it, and he dragged her out into the sunlight of the garden.
"Now then, Jetta, you have heard some of what we have been saying, perhaps?"
"Father—"
"About this young American? This Grant?"
She stood cringing in his grasp. Spawn had never used physical violence with Jetta. But he was white with fury now.
"Father, you—you are hurting me."
Perona interposed. "Wait Spawn! Not so rough! Let me talk to her. Jetta, chica mia, your Greko is worried—"
"To the hell with that!" Spawn shouted. But he released the girl and she sank trembling to the little seat by the pergola.
Spawn stood over her. "Jetta, look at me! Did you meet—did you talk to Grant last night?"
She wanted to deny it. She clung to his angry gaze. But the habit of all her life of truthfulness with him prevailed.