“Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. "Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I. . It was from Brendon. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. That's one of the troubles with young folks: they take themselves so seriously. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. ’ ‘That is what you think? Let us try!’ ‘Don’t be idiotic!’ She was backing from him, reaching through one of the slits she had carefully manufactured in her petticoat. “It isn’t anything to do with our times particularly. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot.
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