"Oh—"
"And one of the things I wanted was the picture of your father which hung in your room. I have taken that. You can get more of them. I can't. So I have taken it."
They faced each other, this shining child and this dark woman.
"But—but it is mine—Hilda."
"It is mine now, and if I were you, I shouldn't make a fuss about it."
"Hilda, how dare you!" Jean began in the old indignant way, and stopped. There was something so sinister about it all. She hated the thought that she and Hilda were alone in the empty house—
"Hilda, if you go to France, shall you see Daddy?"
"I shall try. I had a letter from him the other day. He told me not to come. But I am going. There is work to do, and I am going."
Jean had a stunned feeling, as if there was nothing left to say, as if Hilda were indeed a rock, and words would rebound from her hard surface.
"But after all, you didn't really care for Daddy—"