She could not help herself. “I think we’ve exhausted this discussion,” she said. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. “—but this cannot be. If nothing else had clinched that, the purse had. The flat was apparently empty. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. Me, I prefer to forget that I have such a father. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual.
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