Scoundrels.  Francis thought of her and her not-brother as he's been calling him, as scoundrels.  She burned with the instinct to defend, but swallowed it to let him speak.

"No," she said immediately.  "No, I won't be gentle about it.  If - if - if something is wrong, it's his own fault!  It's his own fault, and he should have to deal with it, not - not run away and try to forget about it."

It wasn't a fair thing to say, but Mable didn't care.  There were countless things both her and Edmund would be better off forgetting that was no one's fault except circumstance.  Maybe their father, maybe Mable's mother, maybe Edmund's.  But not theirs.  Very rarely was it theirs.

"And he won't let me help him.  He's a liar, and he keep secrets from me, and he wont - he won't let me in.  He's mean and bossy and cold to me, and what am I supposed to do?"