His sons were to him as words of one syllable in straight lines; his daughter was written in compound and involved sentences, as her mother had been before her.

Fond and proud of Madelon as he was, and in spite of his stern anxiety, her word had not the weight with him that one of his son's would have had.

It was as if he had visions of endless twistings and complexities which might give it the lie, and rob it, at all events, of its direct force.
Indeed, Madelon strengthened this doubt by crying out passionately all at once, as they went on: "Father, you must believe me! I tell you I did it! I--don't let them hang him! Father!" All Madelon's proud fierceness was gone for a moment.

She looked up at her father, choking with great sobs.
David smiled down at her convulsed face.

"She's nothing but a woman," he thought to himself, and he thought also, with a throb of angry relief, that she had not killed Lot Gordon.