Out of the mother's mouth poured a volley of horrible words, like a hailstorm of hell.
Desire fell back, as from a blinding shock of she knew not what.
Luclarion came round the counter, quite calmly.
"Ma'am," she said, "those words won't hurt her. She don't know the language. But you've got God's daily bread in your hand; how can you talk devil's Dutch over it?"
The woman glared at her. But she saw nothing but strong, calm, earnest asking in the face; the asking of God's own pity.
She rebelled against that, sullenly; but she spoke no more foul words. I think she could as soon have spoken them in the face of Christ; for it was the Christ in Luclarion Grapp that looked out at her.
"You needn't preach. You can order me out of your shop, if you like. I don't care."
"I don't order you out. I'd rather you would come again. I don't think you will bring that street-muck with you, though."
There was both confidence and command in the word like the "Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more." It detached the street-muck from the woman. It was not she; it was defilement she had picked up, when perhaps she could not help it. She could scrape her shoes at the door, and come in clean.
"You know a darned lot about it, I suppose!" were the last words of defiance; softened down, however, you perceive, to that which can be printed.