Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. "Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word.
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