"You—you—brute!" I said, choking, "It's not fair! Do you mean to tell me that I am selfish and unkind? That I don't love my father? That I am a useless, worthless hypochondriac?"
He smiled.
"Perhaps I wouldn't put it quite so strongly," he suggested courteously.
I shut my hands hard under the bedclothes and held my head very high.
"Very well," I told him, rather viciously, "I will do all you say, if Father and Doctor MacAllister are agreed."
I could feel the red spots burning on my cheeks. And in my mind I was saying, over and over, like a child, "I'll show you! I'll show you!" I think I almost hoped I should die—just to make him sorry. And it was so hard to keep the tears back. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't.
I cried.
Suddenly, his arm was around me, and his voice, so changed, so immeasurably gentle, was saying, very close,
"You poor little kid!"
"I hate you!" I said, at that.