He insisted once again on opening the car door for her. "Very well," said Rachel, with a toss of her pretty head, "very well. You are nothing of the sort. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. He stood transfixed. He was accustomed to such surprises, and enjoyed them. It is what I have wanted, what I have meant all along. Was he really awake? The arrival and departure of this strange father lacked the essential human touch to make it real.
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