“Father!” began Christian hotly; biting her lips she stopped, and turned her wrathful eyes on Greta.
“You do not always show your dislikes, Chris.”
“I? What has that to do with it? Because one is a coward that doesn't make it any better, does it?”
“I think that he has a great many dislikes,” murmured Greta.
“I wish you would attend to your own faults, and not pry into other people's,” and pushing the book aside, Christian gazed in front of her.
Some minutes passed, then Greta leaning over, rubbed a cheek against her shoulder.
“I am very sorry, Chris—I only wanted to be talking. Shall I read some history?”
“Yes,” said Christian coldly.
“Are you angry with me, Chris?”
There was no answer. The lingering raindrops pattered down on the roof. Greta pulled at her sister's sleeve.