'Fiddlesticks!' I said.

'I won't let my feelings get the better of me.

I'll stay here.

I won't get your bread for you; but I'll cook you a pretty mess, I will.' I carry within me the wrongs of my people and hatred of the oppressor.

I feel these wrongs like a knife constantly cutting at my heart." Perspiration broke out on his forehead; he shrugged his shoulders and slowly bent toward Pavel, laying a tremulous hand on his shoulder: "Give me your help! Let me have books--such books that when a man has read them he will not be able to rest.