If it was….
ROSE
[Thrusts him away.] Streckmann! I've been tellin' you! I don't want to have nothin' to do with you men. Go your own way.
STRECKMANN
What am I doin' to you?—[After a silence with a smile that is half malicious, half embarrassed.] You wait! You'll be comin' to me one o' these days! I'm tellin' you: you'll be comin' to me yourself some day! You can act as much like a saint as you wants to.—D'you see that cross? D'you see that tree? Confound it! There's all kinds o' things! I've been no kind o' a saint myself! But … right under a cross … you might be sayin' just that … I'm not so very partic'lar, but I'd take shame at that. What would your father be sayin' or August? Now, just f'r instance: this pear tree is hollow. Well an' good. There was a rifle in there.
ROSE
[Has been listening more and more intently in the course of her work. Deadly pale and quivering she bursts out involuntarily:] What are you sayin'?
STRECKMANN
Nothin'!—I'm sayin' nothin' more.—But when a feller hasn't no notion of nothin' an' is thinkin' no ill, a wench like you acts as high an' mighty!