"Oh, in a place like Tuskamuck," he returned, at once, I could see, on the defensive, "they'll talk about anybody."
"Will they? Then I suppose they talk about me. I'm sorry, Tom, for it must make you uncomfortable to hear it; unless, that is, you don't count me for a friend any longer."
He threw back his head in the way he has always had. I used to tell him it was like a colt's shaking back its mane.
"What nonsense! Of course they don't talk about you. You don't give folks any chance."
"And you do," I added as quietly as I could.
He looked angry for just the briefest instant, and then he burst into a hard laugh.
"Caught, by Jupiter! Ruth, you were always too clever for me to deal with. Well, then, I do give the gossips plenty to talk about. They would talk just the same if I didn't, so I may as well have the game as the name."
"Does that mean that your life is regulated by the gossips? I supposed that you had more independence, Tom."
He flushed, and stooped down to pick up a stick. With this he began viciously to strike the bushes by the roadside and the dry stalks of yarrow sticking up through the snow. He set his lips together with a grim determination which brought out in his face the look I like least, the resemblance to his mother when she means to carry a point.