She considered it. There was a silence, but it was not a censorious or cruel silence; Miss Howard looked, in fact, contemplative. She sipped her own tea, as though to clear her own throat. "Indeed," she said presently. "I wrote the pamphlet, Mr. Steinberg, though I do not want that subsequently published -- every thing I say here must be anonymous, or we shall find you a name within the Union, but I would prefer to work from 'behind the scenes' to use a theater term."
Another sip. "We would not have tarred and feathered you," she added, and with a smile -- "unless your name was Endicott. Mister Endicott -- what a tragedy; we had counted him among our friends, of which we had few. I think perhaps he is just a weak-willed man, instead of one who is outright evil, but it doesn't matter. Too much was at stake for me to not write the pamphlet. Do you know the reason they are giving at the moment, for the extended workday we suffer? That if it were lowered and we were idle those two extra hours, we would get into mischief and the crime rate would rise. I just -- the working classes are treated like pigs," she said, and her voice was sharp, though it was not directed at Joseph. "Treated like objects to be used and discarded, or particularly wretched children."
Another sip of tea, and her composure returned. "The New Haven Gazette is a ridiculous, self-obsessed paper," she said, "you seem a little progressive for it, unless you are already writing down Miss Alvean Howard prone to feminine hysteria, an article. If that's the case, I can assure you, three heavy stones would keep you and Bartholomew Endicott from floating to the top of the harbour." (This seemed to be a joke.)