He is a poor, patient, emaciated wretch, and he sits on the floor all day, and weaves the most beautiful things out of the straw he sits on, and Tom Buffum's girls have got them in the house for ornaments.

And he talks about his rifle, and explains it, and explains it, and explains it, when anybody will listen to him, and his clothes are all in rags, and that little boy of his that they have in the house, and treat no better than if he were a dog, knows he is there, and goes and looks at him, and calls to him, and cries about him whenever he dares.

And you sit here, in your great house, with your carpets and chairs, that half smother you, and your looking-glasses and your fine clothes, and don't start to your feet when I tell you this.

I tell you if God doesn't damn everybody who is responsible for this wickedness, then there is no such thing as a God." Miss Butterworth was angry, and had grown more and more angry with every word.

She had brooded over the matter all the afternoon, and her pent-up indignation had overflowed beyond control.