I reckon I sinned too far against one of God's angels.

I reckon it's maybe just lasting hell for me, and not a martyrdom with an end to it some time.

That's how _I've_ got to pay.
"Now, do you want me to tell you all the rest ?" She would not answer, and he resumed.
"Do you want me to tell what you've maybe heard, about this house?
Do you want me to tell whose garments those were that you saw?
Do you want my past?
Do you want to see my bowels dragged out before your eyes?
Do you want to turn the wheel with your own hands?
Do you want me to pay, that way ?" She went to him swiftly, put a hand on his arm.
"No!" said she.

"What I want you to believe is that it's _life_ makes us pay, that it's _God_ makes us pay.
"I want you to believe, too," she went on after a time, "that we need neither of us be cheap.

I'm not going to ask you one thing, I'm not going to listen to one word.