She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. But she had loved the man. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. Diane Vorsack tried to disguise the fact that she was livid, her daughter’s buffoonery having driven off the prestigious dinner guests before the after-dinner drinks could be served. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. Wood, Sir," he added, with much emotion, "is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—" and he hesitated.
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