“Woman’s work?” he asked her, smiling quizzically.
“No, sir,” with her own rare smile; “I ain’t rightly fitted for that.”
“Certainly not in those clothes,” he murmured crossly, for she was dressed again in her own things.
“I’m a-goin’ to do man’s work. I’m a-goin’ to shovel snow an’ help fetch wood an’ kerry in water. You tell your Chinese man, please.”
“And you’re not going to read or study any more?”
“Yes, sir. I like that. If you still want to teach me, Mr. Gael. But I’m a-goin’—I’m going—to get some action. I’ll just die if I don’t. Why, I’m so poor I can’t hardly lift a broom. I don’t know why I’m so miserably poor, Mr. Gael.”
She twisted her brows anxiously.
“You’ve had a nervous breakdown.”
“A what?”
“A nervous breakdown.”