"I'm kind of sorry, Zip," she said. "I just didn't mean all that. Only--only it makes me feel bad seeing all this around, and you--you always trying to do both a man's and a woman's work. Things are bad with us, so bad they seem hopeless. We're right here with two kiddies and--and ourselves, and there's practically no money and no prospects of there being any. It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to do something desperate. It makes me hate things--even those things I've no right to hate. No, no," as the man tried to stop her, "don't you say anything. Not a word till I've done. You see, I mayn't feel like talking of these things again. Maybe I shan't never have a chance of talking them again." She sighed and stared out of window. "I want you to understand things as I see them, and maybe you'll not blame me if I see them wrong. You're too good for me, and I--I don't seem grateful for your goodness. You work and think of others as no other man would do. You don't know what it is to think of yourself. It's me, and the children first with you, and, Zip--and you've no call to think much of me. Yes, I know what you'd say. I'm the most perfect woman on earth. I'm not. I'm not even good. If I were I'd be glad of all you try to do; I'd help you. But I don't, and--and I just don't seem able to. I'm always sort of longing and longing for the old days. I long for those things we can never have. I think--think always of folks with money, their automobiles, their grand houses, with lots and lots of good things to eat. And it makes me hate--all--all this. Oh, Zip, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not good. But I'm not, and I--I--" She broke off and dashed the back of her hand across her eyes in time to wipe away the great tears that threatened to roll down her rounded cheeks. In a moment Scipio was at her side, and one arm was thrust about her waist, and he seized one of her hands.