When he saw the money I said, “It’s not my money, it doesn’t belong to me.”
“Whose is it, then?”
“It’s Cora Tull’s money. It’s Mrs. Tull’s. I sold the cakes for it.”
“Ten dollars for two cakes?”
“Don’t you touch it. It’s not mine.”
“You never had them cakes. It’s a lie. It was them Sunday clothes you had in that package.”
“Don’t you touch it! If you take it you are a thief.”
“My own daughter accuses me of being a thief. My own daughter.”
“Pa. Pa.”
“I have fed you and sheltered you. I give you love and care, yet my own daughter, the daughter of my dead wife, calls me a thief over her mother’s grave.”
“It’s not mine, I tell you. If it was, God knows you could have it.”
“Where did you get ten dollars?”
“Pa. Pa.”
“You won’t tell me. Did you come by it so shameful you dare not?”
“It’s not mine, I tell you. Can’t you understand it’s not mine?”