"I like to cry," she said, in a moment. "I like to cry—like this."
"It's awful," said the other voice, apparently to itself, "to make you cry and not know how to stop you. Don't do it, playmate!"
She laughed then.
"I won't cry," she promised. "But if you knew how pleasant it is when it only means somebody understands and likes you just as well—"
"Better," said the voice. "I always like you better. Whatever you do, that's the effect it has. Now let's talk about your father. We can't stop his coming?"
"No. Nobody ever stopped him yet in anything."
"Then what can we do to him after he gets here?"
"That's what I am trying to think. Sometimes I'm afraid I must run away—before he comes."
"Yes, playmate, if you think so." There was something sharp in the tone: a quick hurt, a premonition of pain, and it was soothing to her.
"But I've so little money." She said that to herself, and his answer shocked her.