Thwaite. She knows her job. I've kept her at it since she was a little wench.
Merton. It's wonderful, all she can do.
Thwaite [scornfully]. Wonderful? What's there wonderful in it, a strong, healthy gal like that? I'd be ashamed if she didn't know what a farmer's daughter's got to know—about dipping the sheep, washing 'em, and shearing, and breaking a horse, and riding him bareback round the boundary. She'd need to be ashamed if she couldn't. And she can use her eyes and her ears. There's nothing she can't see or hear, that gal. Oh, any woman can learn to work if you just make her.
Merton. Any woman?… that kind of work? [smiling and shaking his head.]
Thwaite. I daresay women isn't much use where you come from.
Thwaite [with a pitying smile]. London … ah!
Merton. I shall think of your life out here, Mr Thwaite, when I'm back in London.
Thwaite. No, no, you won't, young man. Nothing of the kind. You won't be thinking of us, no more than we shall be thinking of you. I shall be thinking of my sheep, and you—well, whatever folks do think of in London.
Merton. A good many things.