“Well, out wi’ it, man,” said he.
“Miss don’t seem to fancy me,” said the poor fellow, driven to speak.
“What?” roared the farmer, turning to her.
His ruddy colour became purple, his eyes grew small and wicked; travelling downward from her face they fell upon the letter which she still unconsciously held.
“What’s that?” said he, snatching it from her.
She drew in her breath with sudden dismay and held out a trembling hand.
“Don’t, ah, don’t!” she cried. “It ain’t for you.”
He laughed harshly.
“It ain’t for you, anyways,” he said, looking at the superscription. “And as I don’t know some one o’ the name o’ A. B. in this ’ere ’ouse, I’d best open it and find out who ’tis for.”
And he tore the cover as he spoke.