By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. "What did you ring for, Sir?" she asked, eyeing the group with astonishment. "Thus," replied the prize-fighter. Her state of mind would have seemed altogether discreditable to her grandmother. She liked the animated eagerness of his manner.
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