"I do know it," said the Spawer.
"I say you may know it," the schoolmaster repeated, raising his hoarse voice another tuneless semitone up its chromatic of passion. "I don't care."
"Don't care," the Spawer told him coolly, "as you may be aware, got hanged. I would advise you to take profit by his example."
The schoolmaster's hands flew back to his collar again with one accord.
"You thought you were safe from me," he forced through his unsteady lips. "You thought you were free to do as you liked."
"I certainly thought I was free to walk along the cliff without being persecuted with these attentions," the Spawer cut into him.
"Yes; you thought ... you could trample on me!" the schoolmaster hissed at him venomously.
"I have not the least desire to trample on you," the Spawer assured him frigidly. "I would not tread on a worm if I knew it. There is room in the world for us both—if you 'll be so good as to make use of it."
"You think..." the schoolmaster cried passionately, "that because you come from big towns, and live in fine houses, and wear fine clothes ... that you can do what you like in the country."
"It seems I am mistaken," the Spawer apostrophised sarcastically. "In the towns, at least, we have the police to defend us from molestation by night."