Hackworth heard his daughter's voice. It was a lovely voice, a husky alto, 
and he would have recognized it anywhere. "Don't lie to me, I recognised his 
chevaline!" she said, and finally shouldered Amelia out of the way, burst into 
the parlor, all lanky and awkward and beautiful, an incarnation of joy. She 
took two steps across the oriental rug and then launched herself full-length 
across the settee into her father's arms, where she lay for some minutes 
alternately weeping and laughing.