"Wot?"
"That you should be able to comfort yourself with the thought that they weren't worth much to you as a farmer. What were they worth to you as a father?"
"Naun."
"Quite so—and that's what makes me pity you," and suddenly her eyes kindled, blazed, as with her spirit itself for fuel—"I pity you, I pity you—poor, poor man!"
"Adone do wud that—though you sound more as if you wur in a black temper wud me than as if you pitied me."
"I am angry with you just because I pity you. It's a shame that I should have to pity you—you're such a splendid man. It ought to be impossible to pity you, but I do—I pity you from my soul. Think what you're missing. Think what your children might have been to you. How you might have loved that dear stupid Robert—how proud you might have been of Albert, and of Richard leaving you for a professional career ... and poor little George, just because he was weak and unlike the rest, he might have been more to you than them all. Then there's your brother Harry——"
"Come, come—stick to the truth. I äun't to blame for Harry."
"But can't you see that he's the chief part of the tragedy you're bringing on yourself and everyone?—He's the type, he's the chorus, the commentary on every act. Reuben, can't you see—oh, why won't you see?—he's you, yourself, as you really are!"
"Nonsense!—döan't be a fool, my gal."