" But I drew the line, one evening, at Jerry O'Keefe's, the fish-shop where people crammed in late for hot plates of peas and chips and yellow-battered fish, in a kind of boiler house of steaming fat, after the last cinema show or the old theatre.
'But why?' she said. 'Why? It looks fun in there.'
I said I did not think it the place for her, and she said:
'You talk like a parson or something. You talk just like old Miss Crouch.'
'I'm not taking you,' I said.
'Why? If it's good enough for these people it's good enough for us, isn't it?'
'No.'
'That's because you're really an awful snob,' she said. 'You're too uppish to be seen in there.'
'It's not myself,' I said. 'It's you.'
'Are you going to take me or aren't you?' she said.
'No,' I said. 'I'm not.'
She turned and walked down the street. I stood for a moment alone, stubbornly, watching her swinging away into darkness out of the steamy, glowing gas-light. Then I had a moment of sickness when I felt she was walking out of my life, that I had given her impossible offence and that I should never see her again.
'Wait,' I said, 'wait. Don't go like that. I'll take you. "

― H.E. Bates , Love for Lydia