"I don't know," she said, with her odd precision. "So far it's all just impossible. I can't stand it. All that sort of thing is impossible to me. No, I don't care for men at all."
"What sort of thing is just impossible?" he asked.
"Men! Particularly a man. Impossible!"
Jack roared with laughter at her. She seemed rather to like being laughed at. And her odd, cool, precise intensity tickled him to death.
"You want to be virgin in the virgin bush?" he asked.
She glanced at him quickly.
"Something like that," she said, with her little chuckle. "I think later on, not now, not now—" she shook her head—"I might like to be a man's second or third wife: if the other two were living. I would never be the first. Never. You remember you talked about it."
She looked at him with her round, bright, odd eyes, like an elf or some creature of the border-land, and as he roared with laughter, she smiled quickly and with an odd, mischievous response.
"What you said the other night, when Aunt Matilda was so angry, made me think of it.—She hates you," she added.
"Who, Aunt Matilda? Good job."