She winningly asked the price of it.

She had never known anybody who did not understand prices.

Poor Armour, the colour of a live coal, named one hundred rupees.
'One hundred rupees! Oh, my dear boy, I can never afford that! You must, you must really give it to me for seventy-five.

It will break my heart if I can't have it for seventy-five.' 'Give me the pleasure,' said Armour, 'of making you a present of it.

You have been so kind about everything, and it's so seldom one meets anybody who really cares.