"Kurt," she said, "I got to talk to you."

An inarticulate groan and a glance at the door from Lieders.
"I just got to, papa. It aint righd for you to do the way
you been doing for so long time; efery little whiles you try
to kill yourself; no, papa, that aint righd!"

Kurt, who had gotten out his pencils and compasses and other
drawing tools, grunted: "I got to look at my work, Thekla, now;
I am too busy to talk."

"No, Kurt, no, papa"--the hands holding the blue apron that she
was embroidering with white linen began to tremble; Lieders had not
the least idea what a strain it was on this reticent, slow of speech
woman who had stood in awe of him for eighteen years, to discuss
the horror of her life; but he could not help marking her agitation.
She went on, desperately: "Yes, papa, I got to talk it oud with you.
You had ought to listen, 'cause I always been a good wife to you
and nefer refused you notings. No."

"Well, I aint saying I done it 'cause you been bad to me;
everybody knows we aint had no trouble."

"But everybody what don't know us, when they read how you
tried to kill yourself in the papers, they think it was me.
That always is so. And now I never can any more sleep nights,
for you is always maybe git up and do something to yourself.
So now, I got to talk to you, papa. Papa, how could you done so?"