After a few minutes of painful stillness she walked up to Daniel, and plucked him by the coat-sleeve: “Eh, you don’t know who I am?” she asked, and her squinty eyes shone on him with enigmatic savagery: “I am Philippina; you know, Philippina Schimmelweis.” Daniel stepped back from her: “Well, what of it?” he asked, wrinkling his brow. She followed him, took him by the coat-sleeve again, and led him over into one corner: “Listen, Daniel,” she stammered, “my father—he must give you all the money you need. For years ago your father gave him all the money he had, and told him to keep it for you. Do you understand? I happened to hear about it one time when my father was talking about it to my mother. It was a good seven years ago, but I made a note of it. My father spent the money on himself; he thinks he can keep it. Go to him, and tell him what you want; tell him how much you want, and then go help these people here. But you must not give me away; if you do they’ll kill me. Do you understand? You won’t say a word about it, will you?” “Is that true?” Daniel managed to say in reply, as a feeling of unspeakable anger struggled with one of indescribable disgust. “It is true, Daniel, every word of it; ’pon my soul and honour,” replied Philippina; “just go, and you’ll see that I have told you the truth.” During the conversation of the two, of which she could hardly hear a single syllable, Eleanore never took her eyes off them. VIII Since the day Philippina had made her little brother Markus a cripple for life, she had been an outcast in the home of her parents. To be sure, she had had no great abundance of kindness and cheerfulness before the accident took place. But since that time the barbarous castigation of her father had beclouded and besmirched her very soul. From her twelfth year on, her mind was ruled exclusively by hate. Hatred aroused her; it gave birth to thoughts and plans in her; it endowed her with strength of will and audacity; and it matured her before her time. She hated her father, her mother, her brothers. She hated the house with all its rooms; she hated the bed in which she slept, the table at which she ate. She hated the people who came to see her parents, the customers who came into the shop, the loafers who gathered about the window, the tall lanky Zwanziger, the books and the magazines. But the day she overheard her father and mother talking about that money, a second power had joined the ranks of hate in her benighted, abandoned soul. With her brain on fire she stood behind the door, and heard that she was to be married to Daniel. This remark had filled the then thirteen-year-old girl with all the savage instincts of a bound and fettered woman, with all the crabbedness of an unimaginative person of her standing.