They walked two by two to the car, looking the part of 267 two weary spouses supporting their drunken mates after an all-night bender. “There I can’t help,” said Capes. There was nothing to be got out of the man. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. Capes sat down in the armchair beside her. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely.
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