I'm different.

I like to see him when he's fighting it out with, and mastering, one of the horses, or holding his own with one of the men-swine who give him trouble sometimes." "You and I are different," sighed Alice.
"I should hope so," retorted Isabel, scornfully; but the next moment, with a kind of rough tenderness, she drew the shawl closer round Alice's shoulders.

"Yes, we're different; perhaps that's why I like you.

And I do like you still, though sometimes, when you look up at him with the eyes of a sick calf, and make excuse to touch him----" "Oh, don't, Isabel!" murmured Alice, in a low voice.

"He--he never thinks of me." "You idiot! He never thinks of any of us," breathed Isabel through her teeth.