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. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. The Storm. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me.
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