“‘I’m married,’ says he. ‘I’ve a wife.’
“‘Oh,’ says she. ‘It’s your friend, eh? What’s his name? How come he to want to marry me?’
“‘He doesn’t,’ says Wiggamore. ‘We came to talk business. We want to buy your little farm across the river.’
“‘My arm across the river? Be you crazy? My arm hain’t long enough to go across no river.’
“‘Farm,’ says Wiggamore. ‘Land. Pasture. Meadow.’
“‘Oh!’ says she.
“‘We want to buy it,’ says Wiggamore.
“‘It hain’t for sale,’ says she.
“‘Everythin’s for sale—if you get the right price,’ says Wiggamore.
“‘Nice?’ says she. ‘Why is it nice? ’Tain’t nothin’ but a field where we turn out the hogs. Nothin’ nice about it.’