“Jinny!”
“I only kicked him a little. It didn’t hurt. I wanted it to hurt, dreadfully.”
“My child, my child.”
“I know, Mummy, that it was very wicked. I told Father Anthony all about it at confession, and he looked so sad, so beautifully sad. I wept and wept. He told me to pray very hard to the Virgin to save me from angry passions, and I did, but I enjoyed being angry. I felt big and strong when I was angry, quite, quite different from ordinary, and I thought you would understand. Were you never angry when you were a little girl?”
“Yes, darling, I was.” Her question had startled me. I was profoundly disturbed by this sudden revelation of her character.
But again her little mobile face had changed.
“You aren’t like that, are you, Mummy? You couldn’t be?”
“Like what, my darling?”
“Unforgiving.” Her eyes were on mine.
“I hope not, Geneviève.” She flushed at my tone, but continued to look at me gravely and steadily.