She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare, and the set face; and softened no more, when the moaning was repeated, than if the face had been a picture.
“Miss Dartle,” said I, “if you can be so obdurate as not to feel for this afflicted mother——”
“Who feels for me?” she sharply retorted. “She has sown this. Let her moan for the harvest that she reaps to-day!”
—Charles Dickens David Copperfield (1850)
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