She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. He was now at the entrance of the chapel, and striking the door over which he had previously climbed a violent blow with the bar, it flew open. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. He's a cutie. For Manning it would be a more temperate love altogether.
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