'Manda Grier was by, and she watched her till she could bear the sight no longer. She snatched the letter from the girl's hands and ran it through, and then she flung it on the ground. “Nasty, cold-hearted, stuck-up, shameless thing!”
“Oh, don't, 'Manda; don't, 'Manda!” sobbed Statira, and she plunged her face into the pillows of the bed, where she sat.
“Shameless, cold-hearted, stuck-up, nasty thing!” said 'Manda Grier, varying her denunciation in the repetition, and apparently getting fresh satisfaction out of it in that way. “Don't? St'ira Dudley, if you was a woman—if you was half a woman—you'd never speak to that little corpse-on-ice again.”
“O 'Manda, don't call him names-! I can't bear to have you!”
“Names? If you was anybody at all, you wouldn't look at him! You wouldn't think of him!”
“O 'Manda, 'Manda! You know I can't let you talk so,” moaned Statira.
“Talk? I could talk my head off! 'You must not think I was provoked with you,'” she mimicked Lemuel's dignity of diction in mincing falsetto. “'I will come to see you very soon.' Miserable, worthless, conceited whipper-snapper!”
“O 'Manda, you'll break my heart if you go on so!”
“Well, then, give him up! He's goin' to give you up.”
“Oh, he ain't; you know he ain't! He's just busy, and I know he'll come. I'll bet you he'll be here to-morrow. It'll kill me to give him up.”