Her father looks like he's seen a ghost for a moment, bringing a hand to his stomach as if he'd been punched. When he composes himself, he looks back at his daughter, "H-you didn't... why didn't you tell us?"
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
I was weeping as much for him as her; we do sometimes pity creatures that have none of the feeling either for themselves or others. — Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights