"Tom! Hey, Tom!" The Chinese cook thrust his head into the dining room. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in.
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