"I will let you go, surely," he said, with his low, grim laugh. "I keep no woman prisoner against her will. But think one moment longer, Folle-Farine. You will take no gift at my hands?"
"None."
"You want to go,—penniless as you are?"
"I will go so,—no other way."
"You will fall ill on the road afresh."
"That does not concern you."
"You will starve."
"That is my question."
"You will have to herd with the street dogs."
"Their bite is better than your welcome."