I can't explain, but--' 'It wasn't your fault a bit, you darling goosie,' mother said.

'How could it be ?' 'That's just what I can't tell you,' said Anthea.

'I haven't got a futile brain like you and father, to think of ways of explaining everything.' Mother laughed.
'My futile brain--or did you mean fertile ?--anyway, it feels very stiff and sore this morning--but I shall be quite all right by and by.

And don't be a silly little pet girl.

The fire wasn't your faults.