"If Beltran said so, it would be true."
"It's no more likely that he should be right than that I should be."
"You couldn't have spoken so about Beltran once!"
"Well, black or white, slave or free, never think I shall sit by and see my country fall to ruins."
"Your country? Do you suppose you love it any more than I do?"
"You're a woman."
"Suppose I am a woman, you unkind boy"—
"Well, you only love half of it,—the Southern half."
"I love my whole country!" cried Vivia, all aflame. "I love these purple, rust-stained granites here, the great savannas there,—the pine forests, the sea-like prairies,—every river rolling down its rocky bed,—every inch of its beautiful, glorious soil,—all its proud, free people. I love my whole country!"
"Only you hate some of its parasites. But Beltran would tell you that you haven't got any country. You may love your native State. As for country, it's nothing but a—what-you-may-call-it."