“Next time I'll make a whistle for you,” he called after her.
“And give it to somebody else,” said Cynthia.
She had hold of her father's hand by that, but he caught up with her, very red in the face.
“You know that isn't true,” he cried angrily, and taking his way across Brampton Street, turned, and stood staring after them until they were out of sight.
“Do you like him, Daddy?” asked Cynthia.
William Wetherell did not answer. He had other things to think about.
“Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Does your trouble feel any better?”
“Some, Cynthia. But you mustn't think about it.”