Like all complaining women, she complained in the expectation of being soothed, and when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to complain more bitterly.
"I know thee couldst do better wi'out me, for thee couldst go where thee likedst an' marry them as thee likedst.

But I donna want to say thee nay, let thee bring home who thee wut; I'd ne'er open my lips to find faut, for when folks is old an' o' no use, they may think theirsens well off to get the bit an' the sup, though they'n to swallow ill words wi't.
An' if thee'st set thy heart on a lass as'll bring thee nought and waste all, when thee mightst ha' them as 'ud make a man on thee, I'll say nought, now thy feyther's dead an' drownded, for I'm no better nor an old haft when the blade's gone." Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench and walked out of the workshop into the kitchen.

But Lisbeth followed him.
"Thee wutna go upstairs an' see thy feyther then?
I'n done everythin' now, an' he'd like thee to go an' look at him, for he war allays so pleased when thee wast mild to him." Adam turned round at once and said, "Yes, mother; let us go upstairs.
Come, Seth, let us go together." They went upstairs, and for five minutes all was silence.

Then the key was turned again, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs.

But Adam did not come down again; he was too weary and worn-out to encounter more of his mother's querulous grief, and he went to rest on his bed.
Lisbeth no sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she threw her apron over her head, and began to cry and moan and rock herself as before.