“Refuse! ‘Of course!’ Why ‘of course?’”
“I don’t love him.”
“Who do ye love, daughter?”
“You.”
“Uh-huh—ye’d better! Who else?”
“That podheaded little Mart.”
“Who else?”
Silence answered this for a time. “Perhaps you are impertinent, after all,” said Manzanita demurely at last.
“I don’t mean to be. I’m yer pa.”
“I don’t know that I love anybody else—the—the way I guess you mean, pa.”