'It wasn't that,' she said slowly. Then suddenly she pulled her hand free. 'I'm going back now.'
I caught up with her. She turned on me then, her eyes blazing. 'Will you let me be,' she cried. Her voice was shrill, frightened.
'Not until you've told all there is to tell about my mother,' I cried.
'Never,' she answered.
Then I'll stay with you until you do,' I told her angrily. 'She loved you. She gave you that brooch. It was the only thing of my father's she had left. I have nothing of hers — nothing at all. And you, who have everything of hers that I as her child ought to have had — you haven't the decency to talk to me about her for a few minutes.'
'It isn't that,' she said, and her voice was sad.
'What is it then?' I asked.
'Can't you realise that I'd rather not talk about her? Can't you just leave it at that?'
'No, I can't,' I said angrily.
'Please,' she pleaded.