"A man be a man—Christian or heathen. Things do happen to men sometimes, and their religion don't make any more difference then to what they do than the hat on their heads. Quite right, too. I like to think there's a bit of metal in you. Sometimes I almost wish you'd make me feel it, when I startle you and say my silly speeches."
"How can I be angry with such speeches as yours? They'm silly enough only too often; but they'm frank as light. 'Tis the hidden and secret thing I'd rage against."
"If you found it out."
"I should find it out. There's no power of hiding in you, even if there was the will."
"You'm a dear man," she said, and lifted her mouth and kissed him.
"All the same," she added, "every woman's got a power of hiding—even the biggest fool amongst 'em—and—and the old gravestones of they lost people be quite as interesting to me as the crosses are to you."
"I don't say they are lost. I only say that we've no right to say anything about all them as went down to death before salvation came."
"Why couldn't Jesus Christ have hastened into the world quicker?" she asked. "'Twould have saved a deal of sad doubt about all them poor souls."
"You ought not to think such questions. I lay Woodrow said that."
"No, he didn't. 'Tis my very own thought. Suppose, Dan, that He'd been the earliest man born of a woman, and comed into the world Eve's first li'l one? How would that plan have worked?"