His face was grey, the grey that dawn has, the grey than which there is
nothing greyer and yet in which there is light. That light was there.
His upper-lip was just a little raised. It was as though he had seen
something that pleased him and of which he was about to tell.
"Daddy!"
Jones followed her. He drew down the rug and bent over. After a moment,
he drew the rug up, well up, and, with a forefinger, saluted.
Cassy, tearing the covering back, flung herself there. Jones could not
see her tears. He heard them. Her slim body shook.