Didn't she want poor Ann to have a good time--and feel at home--and be admired?
Did she care for her when she was somber and shy, and resent her when happy and confident?
She told herself she was glad to hear Ann laughing; and yet each time the happy little laugh stirred that elusive foreboding in the not usually apprehensive soul of Katie Jones.
"I want to tell you about my girl, Katie," her cousin was saying.

"I've got the _only_ girl." He was off into the story of Helen: Helen, who was a clerk in the forest service and "put it all over" any girl he had ever known before, who was worth the whole bunch of girls he had known in the East--girls who had been brought up like doll-babies and had doll-baby brains.

Didn't Katie agree that a girl who could make her own way distanced the girls who could do nothing but spend their fathers' money?
In her heart, Katie did; had she been defending Fred to his father, the Bishop, or to his Bostonian mother, she would have grown eloquent for Helen.

But listening to Fred, it seemed something was being attacked, and she, unreasonably enough, instead of throwing herself with the aggressor was in the stormed citadel with her aunt and uncle and the girls with the doll-baby brains.
And she had been within the citadel that afternoon when Wayne was attacking the army.

She gloried in attacks of her own, but let some one else begin one and she found herself running for cover--and to defense.
She wondered if that were anything more meaningful than just natural perversity.
The Bishop had wanted his son for the church; but Fred not taking amicably to the cloth, he had urged the navy.