Mart's face burned red under his sneer.
"How am I to know who 'she' is?" she said, in bitter scorn. "Some of
your bar-room beauties, for whom you dance and whistle, I suppose. You
can tell her I would rather have my shawl out of pawn, or some shoes for
my feet, enough sight. What do I care for a great flower mocking at me?"
"Pitch it into the fire, then; and it will be many a long day before I
bring you anything else," said Dirk, pushing himself angrily back from
the table, where he had been eating bread dipped in a choice bit of pork
fat.
"There isn't a bit of danger of my doing that," she called after him,
mockingly. "There isn't a spark of fire, nor likely to be to-day, unless
some of your admirers send me a shovel of coal. Mercy knows, I wish they
would."
He mercifully lost part of this sentence, for the reason that before it
was concluded he was moving with long, angry strides up the alley.
And then Mart took the broken-nosed pitcher away into the furthermost
corner, although she was alone in the room, and laid her face against
the cool, pure lily, and wept into it great burning tears. Poor,
ignorant soul! She wanted, oh, how she _wanted_ Dirk to be brave
and good like Mark Calkins--her one type of manhood.
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