Haven't you guessed what I was driven to do?
Doesn't look the part. Starving proletariat, desperate anarchist, really? I inherited you from my predecessor, and I'm not sure I really know why.
Seven years ago, I loved a man. Son of a butcher. 25 shillings a week he brought home -- but how was he to take on a girl with an ailing mother and a poor simple brother? I had to find the courage to slam the door in his face.
Do you know the most frequent customers to my shop are from Parliament and the pulpit? The men who uphold the social order of this country are not only rank hypocrites, but their tastes... beyond the limit. I'd have them dragged out into plain sight and torn apart. Their skin and their pretence laid bare.