Strangely enough, it was not so much the inclemency of the night or the danger of the enterprise which provoked this obstinacy, as some outrage and dishonour to her figure.
"You may talk all night," she cried between her sobs, "about O'Toole and his beautiful German.

They can go hang for me! I am only a servant, I know.

I am poor, I admit it.

But poverty isn't a crime.

It gives no one the right to make a dwarf of me.