Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission. The Bitchster strikes again. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. "You frighten the cull out of his senses. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. Mind, when we were all growed up, it were different.
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