"Quite so, but others do care."
"But I don't mind it."
"But I do."
"Then it is for your sake after all?"
"No, for your sake."
He stopped and looked at me with stern, decisive eyes. I felt so low and mean that I was ashamed of myself. What did all of this mean? There stood a man, and I pleaded and begged for permission to write to him. And he would let me, graciously let me, if I was content with his conditions. A wave of bitter anger swept over me. Would he dare to speak like that to another girl? To the daughter of his superior or of his friend? Or what else could it be but that he was ashamed of me—ashamed of the shabby dress I wore and the situation I was in? Quick as lightning a vision rose before me, a row of girls all dressed in costly gowns ... and for the first time I felt envious.... Was he not right after all? What was I? What were my people?... Poor, wretchedly poor!
"Leave me," I said, and the torture that I suffered leapt into my throat; "I will not write to you."
"You can't do that."