“Yes, you don’t care!” Adolphine blubbered, furiously. “You, with your stuck-up coolness, you’re so eaten up with conceit that you don’t take anything to heart. I’m not like that. I’m sensitive, I’m easily affected, it hurts me when people talk about us. But then I’m not used to it as you are!”
And Adolphine kept squeezing the tears out of her eyes, wishing to convey that she was misunderstood and misjudged and very sensitive; wishing also to make Constance feel that it was Constance’ fault and that there was plenty more that was Constance’ fault. Constance, however, remained cool.
Though a single unfortunate word from her husband was enough to set her nerves on edge and her temper seething, she kept calm and cold towards her sister, because, after the fight between their boys, she had settled accounts with Adolphine, written her off as it were; and this feeling had depressed her too much to allow her now to excite herself into a quarrel. She wondered if she was overdoing it; and, to settle the matter, she said:
“I confess that I have never had such an experience of backbiting as here, at the Hague; in Brussels, at any rate, no one ever doubted the legitimacy of my child. But here—and even in your house, Adolphine—people seem to think that he is not my husband’s son.”
“How can I help that?” Adolphine began to blubber.
“No, you can’t help it; at least I’m prepared to believe you can’t. But I did hope that, if any one
