"Not Alexander," Theresa protested.
"How would they enjoy the company of George?"
Theresa took a step forward. "Uncle George? Why?"
A new danger bridged their difference. "Tell her," said Nancy's eyes. His mood was defiant, for he had been goaded, and he did not hesitate.
"We are thinking of asking your Uncle George to live with us," he said smoothly.
She sat down, opening and shutting her mouth. "You're not," she said, very low. "Nobody could live with him. He's a beast."
"Terry!"
"You know he is. What's the good of pretending? You hate him yourself. When he comes you get all screwed up to nothing. We all hate him. If he comes here I'll run away. If I were a boy—oh, if I were a boy!" Her face was like a shell with a light inside it. "I'd go down to the docks, I wouldn't stay here; I'd go to sea. And, anyway, I—I'll earn my own living." She sank more deeply into her seat, and her hands shook in her lap. She looked up. "You're not really going to ask him? It'll make Mother ill for one thing."
"Not if you keep your temper, Terry."
Her voice broke out on a sob. "I am keeping it! Oh, oh, oh! He'll preach and he'll pray, and he'll whine on that old harmonium—and try to convert us, and he'll spy on Grace, and we'll never have any fun any more. And where's he going to sleep? Fusty old thing—he'll snore. Are you going to turn us out of our room for him? Are you? I won't go—I won't go!"