"Oh, oh, oh! Dear lady, let me tell you,
we ain't city folks, we ain't; we don't have such soft skins.
What sort of talk is that? Pimples--what difference would that
make to poor folks like us? We don't have a white complexion like the ladies
of Paris. We are out all day in the fields, in the sun and the rain, instead
of rubbing cold cream on our muzzles! No offense, ma'am--but I say if you're
looking for an excuse to get rid of me, you must get a better one than that."
"Excuse!" exclaimed the other. "What in the world do you mean?"
"Oh, I know!" said the nurse, nodding her head.
"But speak!"
"It's no use, when you're only a poor country woman."
"I don't understand you! I swear to you that I don't understand
you!"
"Well," sneered the other, "I understand."
"But then--explain yourself."
"No, I don't want to say it."
"But you must; I wish it."
"Well--"
"Go ahead."
"I'm only a poor country woman, but I am no more stupid than the
others, for all that. I know perfectly well what your tricks
mean. Mr. George here has been grumbling because you promised me
thirty francs more a month, if I came to Paris." And then,
turning upon the other, she went on--"But, sir, isn't it only
natural? Don't I have to put my own child away somewheres else?
And then, can my husband live on his appetite? We're nothing but
poor country people, we are."
"You are making a mistake, nurse," broke in George. "It is
nothing at all of that sort; mother is quite right.
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