“He’s my father,” she told herself. “He won’t kill me, after all. He might beat me, but he’s done that before and I’ve lived through it. I’ll be twenty-one in three weeks, so he can’t say I’m a minor. All he can do is make a speech about my ungratefulness. He’s a human being, not the devil.” She said the last aloud, in a whisper, and her own voice startled her. Cautiously, Laura investigated room numbers, half expecting him to burst from his room and discover her unprepared. After a few false starts she found 1402 and standing there, looking at that door, she felt an enormous need to cry. She shut her eyes hard and said softly, “I won’t, I won’t.” Then she opened them, and, with her heart in her mouth, she rapped on the door. The noise sounded huge. For a moment she wanted to run. But she didn’t. _He mustn’t see me looking panicky_, she thought. She listened. There was no sound audible. _Maybe he’s not in. Oh, dear God, maybe he left._ She didn’t know whether to exult or despair. _If I don’t face him now, I’ll never be able to face myself_, she thought. _I’ll never stand alone. I’ve got to tell him everything._ She felt desperate at the thought of having to go and search him out, to win her freedom from him. The hope that she had missed him, that he had already left for Chicago, was too sweet to banish. She was ready to flee when the door swung open, without any preliminary sounds to warn her. She blanched uncontrollably and found herself looking at her father’s feet. Very slowly, she looked up the rest of him to his face. There was a slight frown on his heavy features. But he wasn’t at all surprised. He let her stand there until she was miserably uncomfortable, and then—only then—he spoke. “Come in,” he said. Not “Hello, Laura.” He spoke as if she might have been the maid come to clean his room. He stepped aside slightly to permit her to walk past him. She clutched herself in her arms, fearful of touching him as she brushed past, and walked quickly across the room to a half open window on the opposite side. She looked resolutely out at the city, afraid to let him see her face. _The minute I look at him, I’ll cry. I’ll do some damn silly weak thing, and he’ll lord it over me, and I’ll wind up promising to go home to Chicago with him. I can’t look at him. Not yet._ She listened to him moving around the room behind her and felt his eyes on her. But he said nothing. After a few moments, Laura could stand it no longer. She knew he was laughing at her. Not with his voice or his lips, but silently, inside. She turned and looked for him. He was standing across the room, his enormous back planted against the wall, his arms folded over his chest, studying her. She flinched a little, seeing his face. “I never knew before,” he said slowly, savoring it, “how fast you could run.” He gave her a slight sardonic smile. Laura felt her insides turn to water. Her face was white and set as plaster. She forced herself to return his gaze.