“Who wants to quarrel with you?” he said. “It’s you as can’t let people alone, but must be gnawing at ’em forever. _I_ should never want to quarrel with any woman if she kept her place.” “My place, indeed!” said Mrs Glegg, getting rather more shrill. “There’s your betters, Mr Tulliver, as are dead and in their grave, treated me with a different sort o’ respect to what you do; _though_ I’ve got a husband as’ll sit by and see me abused by them as ’ud never ha’ had the chance if there hadn’t been them in our family as married worse than they might ha’ done.” “If you talk o’ that,” said Mr Tulliver, “my family’s as good as yours, and better, for it hasn’t got a damned ill-tempered woman in it!” “Well,” said Mrs Glegg, rising from her chair, “I don’t know whether you think it’s a fine thing to sit by and hear me swore at, Mr Glegg; but I’m not going to stay a minute longer in this house. You can stay behind, and come home with the gig, and I’ll walk home.” “Dear heart, dear heart!” said Mr Glegg in a melancholy tone, as he followed his wife out of the room. “Mr Tulliver, how could you talk so?” said Mrs Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes. “Let her go,” said Mr Tulliver, too hot to be damped by any amount of tears. “Let her go, and the sooner the better; she won’t be trying to domineer over _me_ again in a hurry.” “Sister Pullet,” said Mrs Tulliver, helplessly, “do you think it ’ud be any use for you to go after her and try to pacify her?” “Better not, better not,” said Mr Deane. “You’ll make it up another day.” “Then, sisters, shall we go and look at the children?” said Mrs Tulliver, drying her eyes.