Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. 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. With the last glimmer of decency he had sent the daughter to his sister. He got up. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Her father for fifteen years, and you now for the rest of her life! Tell her you're a thief.
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