Faith walked inflexibly across the room, caught the paper from his hand, flung it on the floor and stamped on it. Then she faced him, with her flashing eyes and scarlet cheeks. She was such a handsome young fury that Norman Douglas hardly recognized her.
“What’s brought you back?” he growled, but more in bewilderment than rage.
Unquailingly she glared back into the angry eyes against which so few people could hold their own.
“I have come back to tell you exactly what I think of you,” said Faith in clear, ringing tones. “I am not afraid of you. You are a rude, unjust, tyrannical, disagreeable old man. Susan says you are sure to go to hell, and I was sorry for you, but I am not now. Your wife never had a new hat for ten years—no wonder she died. I am going to make faces at you whenever I see you after this.