"But how can you tell? By what authority do you claim the right to judge of a person you have never seen?"
"Are we not told to go out into the highways and the hedges, and force them to come in?" says she.
"Whether they want to or not?" says I.
"Exactly," says she; "their not wanting to come into the fold shows the state of wickedness into which they have fallen."
"But how do you know that I am wicked?" says I.
She looked at me a long time, as if the idea were new to her. She had been so eager in raking up sinners, that it seemed to hurt her feelings to think that any human being she met wasn't on the high road to—well, what's its name?
"That feather," says she, "isn't a mark of regeneration."
"No," says I, "but it is the badge of a patriotic idea."
The creature didn't take in this delicate political hint. In fact, anything fine or keen is sure to puzzle your woman of one idea.
"Where do you go to meeting?" says she, as abrupt as a cracked stick.