A Daughter of the Snows

by Jack London

"Frona's philosophy," the colonel sneered.

"And my philosophy, and yours."

"And of the agglutinated dust—"

"Which is quickened with a passion you do not take into account,—the passion of duty, of race, of God!"

"And the compensation?" Trethaway demanded.

"Each breath you draw. The Mayfly lives an hour."

"I don't see it."

"Blood and sweat! Blood and sweat! You cried that after the rough and tumble in the Opera House, and every word of it was receipt in full."

"Frona's philosophy."

"And yours and mine."