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Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. “Yes. ‘The truth is, Everett,’ she said brightly, limping up to the general and tucking a hand in his arm, ‘that the girl is you all over again. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. "No, Sir, it's quite possible—more than possible. I hate to see you spoil yourself with guys like me. You’re tired, of course.
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