"That's exactly what I pretend—and we must all help you to it. You use us, you push us about, you break us up. We're your tables and chair, the simple furniture of your life."
"Whom do you mean by 'we'?"
Peter gave an ironic laugh. "Oh don't be afraid—there will be plenty of others!"
She made no return to this, but after a moment broke out again. "Poor Dashwood immured with mamma—he's like a lame chair that one has put into the corner."
"Don't break him up before he has served. I really believe something will come out of him," her companion went on. "However, you'll break me up first," he added, "and him probably never at all."
"And why shall I honour you so much more?"
"Because I'm a better article and you'll feel that."
"You've the superiority of modesty—I see."
"I'm better than a young mountebank—I've vanity enough to say that."
She turned on him with a flush in her cheek and a splendid dramatic face. "How you hate us! Yes, at bottom, below your little cold taste, you hate us!" she repeated.