Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. “How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. “You will have some tea?” she asked.
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