“I’ve never tried to hide that I came from the slums,” she said in the simple, impersonal tone of a factual correction. “And I haven’t any sympathy for that welfare philosophy. I’ve seen enough of them to know what makes the kind of poor who want something for nothing.”
After a while, he asked, “What does he think of me?” The question did not seem to astonish her. “He thinks you’re a fool,” she answered. “He thinks life’s too short to notice your existence.” “He’d notice it, if—” He stopped. “—if you bashed him over the head with a club? I’m not too sure. He’d merely blame himself for not having moved out of the club’s reach. Still, that would be your only chance.”