It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. She fled. She looked around the apartment for other people. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. She had a political cartoon from 1785 that showed a tall man in a cape, a caricature of a French politico that looked suspiciously like him. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. 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. He was fast rising to an eminence that no one of his nefarious profession ever reached before him, nor, it is to be hoped, will ever reach again. Master, your humble servant. “I suppose delusions are not uncommon to patients in his condition.
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