“Oh, don’t try to make believe you feel bad; you can’t make me pity you if you do cry; you don’t feel half as bad as you pretend.”
“I don’t want you to pity me. I don’t cry ’cause I’m sorry; I’m mad, and I hate Crisp and I hate——”
“Me, too; why don’t you say it?”
“No, I don’t hate you, ’cause——”
“’Cause what?”
“’Cause you are my mother.”
“Well, well, that might do to tell; but don’t I know you hate me? Can’t I see it in them devilish black eyes? Can’t I tell by the way that head shakes? Oh, yes, I know you hate me, but I can take it out of you if I have to bury the lash in your back, and if I can’t I know who can.”
“Who, Crisp?”
“Yes.”