I'm not like other women, and never can be.

I'm a squaw--a squaw!" "You're not!" he cried.
"It's a nice word, isn't it ?" "What's wrong with it ?" "No honest man can marry me.

I'm a vagabond! The best I can get is my bed and board, like my mother." "By God! Who offered you that ?" Gale's face was whiter than hers now, but she disregarded him and abandoned herself to the tempest of emotion that swept her along.
"He can play with me, but nothing more, and when he is gone another one can have me, and then another and another and another--as long as I can cook and wash and work.

In time my man will beat me, just like any other squaw, I suppose, but I can't marry; I can't be a wife to a decent man." She was in the clutch of an hysteria that made her writhe beneath Gale's hand, choking and sobbing, until he loosed her; then she leaned exhausted against a post and wiped her eyes, for the tears were coming now.
"That's all damned rot," he said.

"There's fifty good men in this camp would marry you to-morrow." "Bah! I mean real men, not miners.