She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. Would you mind drawing them back?” Ennison sprang up, but he never reached the curtains. The huge, newly remodeled brick house was crammed full of people reeking of beer, vodka, and tequila. Daughters were not like sons. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble.
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