"Yes, I am hard; perhaps I am cruel; but we must be hard if we wish to
triumph. Don't listen to young men when they try to mock and muddle you.
They don't care for you; they don't care for _us_. They care only for
their pleasure, for what they believe to be the right of the stronger.
The stronger? I am not so sure!"
"Some of them care so much--are supposed to care too much--for us,"
Verena said, with a smile that looked dim in the darkness.
"Yes, if we will give up everything. I have asked you before--are you
prepared to give up?"
"Do you mean, to give _you_ up?"
"No, all our wretched sisters--all our hopes and purposes--all that we
think Sacred and worth living for!"
"Oh, they don't want that, Olive." Verena's smile became more distinct,
and she added: "They don't want so much as that!"
"Well, then, go in and speak for them--and sing for them--and dance for
them!"
"Olive, you are cruel!"
"Yes, I am. But promise me one thing, and I shall be--oh, so tender!"
"What a strange place for promises," said Verena, with a shiver, looking
about her into the night.
"Yes, I am dreadful; I know it. But promise." And Olive drew the girl
nearer to her, flinging over her with one hand the fold of a cloak that
hung ample upon her own meagre person, and holding her there with the
other, while she looked at her, suppliant but half hesitating.
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