“I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. “Put her in the trunk. . ’ She saw the weapon wrenched from Emile’s hand and he dropped to the bench of the pew and sat there, grasping helplessly at the welling blood on his arm. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. She had to exert tremendous energy not to sniff the air for his blood. Her personal maidservant, the first she had ever had in her life, was joyful for her. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.
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