So I just waited for him to thunder out his anger; for, of course, I thought he _would_ thunder in rage and righteous indignation.
But he didn't.

Instead, very quietly and gently he said: "Are you so unhappy, then, Mary--here ?" And I looked at him, and his eyes and his mouth and his whole face weren't angry at all.

They were just sorry, actually sorry.

And somehow, before I knew it, I was crying again, and Father, with his arm around me--_with his arm around me!_ think of that!--was leading me to the sofa.
And I cried and cried there, with my head on the arm of the sofa, till I'd made a big tear spot on the linen cover; and I wondered if it would dry up before Aunt Jane saw it, or if it would change color or leak through to the red plush underneath, or some other dreadful thing.

And then, some way, I found myself telling it all over to Father--about Mary and Marie, I mean, just as if he was Mother, or some one I loved--I mean, some one I loved and _wasn't afraid of_; for of course I love Father.