“You deserve to have a house of your own; don’t you, poor pa?”

“I don’t deserve it better than another, my dear.”

“At any rate I, for one, want it more than another,” said Bella, holding him by the chin, as she stuck his flaxen hair on end, “and I grudge this money going to the monster that swallows up so much, when we all want⁠—everything. And if you say (as you want to say; I know you want to say so, pa) ‘that’s neither reasonable nor honest, Bella,’ then I answer, ‘Maybe not, pa⁠—very likely⁠—but it’s one of the consequences of being poor, and of thoroughly hating and detesting to be poor, and that’s my case.’ Now, you look lovely, pa; why don’t you always wear your hair like that? And here’s the cutlet! If it isn’t very brown, ma, I can’t eat it, and must have a bit put back to be done expressly.”