“Can’t you hit it off, you two?” he said.
“He’s so obstinate,” she quivered; but her soul was obdurate itself.
“Ay, an’ I know another who’s all that,” said her father.
She was silent.
“You don’t want to make yourselves miserable,” said her father; “all about nowt.”
“He isn’t miserable,” she said.
“I’ll back my life, if you can do nowt else, you can make him as miserable as a dog. You’d be a dab hand at that, my lass.”
“I do nothing to make him miserable,” she retorted.
“Oh no—oh no! A packet o’ butterscotch, you are.”
She laughed a little.