You're a lost soul—there's no help for you.
LUISE
[Frenzied.] It's you that there's no help for! Tatter-breeched scarecrows—that's what you are—an' not men at all. Whey-faced gutter-scrapers that take to your heels at the sound of a child's rattle. Fellows that says "thank you" to the man as gives you a hidin'. They've not left that much blood in you as that you can turn red in the face. You should have the whip taken to you, an' a little pluck flogged into your rotten bones.
[She goes out quickly.
[Embarrassed pause.]
MOTHER HILSE
What's the matter with Liesl, father?
OLD HILSE
Nothin', mother! What should be the matter with her?