"At all?"
"No, not at all—really."
"And—Mr. Greeber, do you like him?"
"Do you think I do? You know all right. Do you?"
"No." He paused. "You don't like it here at all, do you?"
"Why?"
"Because you don't look as though you liked it": awkwardly.
"I know I don't look as though I liked it," I snapped. "I know I don't look anything nice! We can't all look lovely. You don't look like I do, so what does it matter to you? You haven't much to abide. You don't get it all day long." Starving for sympathy I pushed it away.
"No—o. I know. But I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" I would hold out in the grim fortress of my loneliness, or I would taunt him to say something so plain, to attack so boldly, that he would force me to give in. I was holding out for a more complete surrender.