I'm a poor, miserable, forlorn drudge; I shall only drag you down with me, that's all.

What's the use of our trying to do anything, trying to know anything, trying to be anything?
What's the use of living?
I wish I was dead!" "O, now, dear George, that is really wicked! I know how you feel about losing your place in the factory, and you have a hard master; but pray be patient, and perhaps something--" "Patient!" said he, interrupting her; "haven't I been patient?
Did I say a word when he came and took me away, for no earthly reason, from the place where everybody was kind to me?
I'd paid him truly every cent of my earnings,--and they all say I worked well." "Well, it _is_ dreadful," said Eliza; "but, after all, he is your master, you know." "My master! and who made him my master?
That's what I think of--what right has he to me?
I'm a man as much as he is.

I'm a better man than he is.

I know more about business than he does; I am a better manager than he is; I can read better than he can; I can write a better hand,--and I've learned it all myself, and no thanks to him,--I've learned it in spite of him; and now what right has he to make a dray-horse of me ?--to take me from things I can do, and do better than he can, and put me to work that any horse can do?
He tries to do it; he says he'll bring me down and humble me, and he puts me to just the hardest, meanest and dirtiest work, on purpose!" "O, George! George! you frighten me! Why, I never heard you talk so; I'm afraid you'll do something dreadful.

I don't wonder at your feelings, at all; but oh, do be careful--do, do--for my sake--for Harry's!" "I have been careful, and I have been patient, but it's growing worse and worse; flesh and blood can't bear it any longer;--every chance he can get to insult and torment me, he takes.