Her face flamed at him, the bonfire's light when prejudice is burned.
"I know," she said, "but you're too slow. You want them educated first. Then you'll give them something—if they deserve it."
"I won't give them my country—or Weedon Moore's country—to manhandle till they're grown up, and fit to have a plaything and not smash it."
"I would, Jeffrey."
"You would?"
"Yes. Give them power. They'll learn by using it. But don't waste time. Think of it! All the winters and summers while they work and work and the rest of us eat the bread they make for us."
"But, good God, Amabel! there isn't any curse on work. If your Bible tells you so, it's a liar. You go slow, dear old girl; go slow."
"Go slow?" said Amabel, smiling at him. "How can I? Night and day I see those people. I hear them crying out to me."
"Well, it's uncomfortable. But it's no reason for your delivering them over to demagogues like Weedon Moore."
"He's not a demagogue."