you can lay your hands on; but the moment you have it, it seems to slip through your fingers; you never know what becomes of it. Well, one must take you as you are. It's in the blood. Yes, Nora, that sort of thing is hereditary.
Nora.
I wish I had inherited many of papa's qualities.
Helmer.
And I don't wish you anything but just what you are—my own, sweet little song-bird. But I say—it strikes me you look so—so—what shall I call it?—so suspicious to-day
Nora.
Do I?
Helmer.
You do, indeed. Look me full in the face.
Nora.
[Looking at him.] Well?
Helmer.
[Threatening with his finger.] Hasn't the little sweet-tooth been playing pranks to-day?
Nora.
No; how can you think such a thing!
Helmer.
Didn't she just look in at the confectioner's?
Nora.
No, Torvald; really
Helmer.
Not to sip a little jelly?
