The school's breaking up; you are going your way, and I am going mine--and who cares what becomes of me?
Only an ugly old schoolmistress, who is paid for caring.
I wonder why I am saying all this?
Because I like you?
I don't know that I like you any better than you like me.

When I wanted to be friends with you, you treated me coolly; I don't want to force myself on you.

I don't particularly care about you.

May I write to you from Brighton ?" Under all this bitterness--the first exhibition of Francine's temper, at its worst, which had taken place since she joined the school--Emily saw, or thought she saw, distress that was too proud, or too shy, to show itself.

"How can you ask the question ?" she answered cordially.
Francine was incapable of meeting the sympathy offered to her, even half way.