"They're saying it, missus, but it äun't true."

"I don't care if it's true or not. You shouldn't ought to tell my gal
Martha such things before you tell me."

Socknersh's eyes opened wide, and the other men looked up from their
work.

"Seemingly," continued Joanna, "everyone on this farm hears everything
before I do, and it ain't right. Next time you hear a lot of tedious
gossip, Dick Socknersh, you come and tell me, and don't waste it on the
gals, making them idle."

She went away, her eyes bright with anger, and then suddenly her heart
smote her. Suppose Socknersh took offence and gave notice. She had
rebuked him publicly before the hired shearers--it was enough to make
any man turn. But what should she do if he went?--He must not go. She
would never get anyone like him. She almost turned and went back, but
had enough sense to stop--a public apology would only make a worse
scandal of a public rebuke. She must wait and see him alone ... the next
minute she knew further that she must not apologize, and the minute
after she knew further still--almost further than she could bear--that
in denying herself an apology she was denying herself a luxury, that she
wanted to apologize, to kneel at Socknersh's clay-caked feet and beg his
forgiveness, to humble herself before him by her penitence so that he
could exalt her by his pardon....

"Good sakes! Whatever's the matter with me?" thought Joanna.