"What did he say?"
"What didn't he say? Not a kind word, anyway. And 'tis vain your sticking up for him, because he don't think any better of you than he do of me seemingly. 'Twas to that man he pointed." She raised her arm towards the farm through the trees. "He thinks a lot more of Timothy Waite than he does of you, I can tell you."
"I'll talk to father. This can't go on."
"No, it can't go on. Life's too short for this sort of thing. I won't be bullied by anybody. People seem to forget who I am."
"You mustn't talk so, Cora. I'm terrible sorry about it; but father's father, and he'll go his own rough way, and you ought to know what way that is by now. Don't take it to heart—he means well."
"'Heart!' I've got no heart according to him—no heart, no sense, no nothing. Just a dummy to show off pretty clothes."
"He never said that!"
"Yes, he did; and worse, and I'm tired of it. You're not the only man in the world."
"Nothing is gained by my quarrelling with father."
"I suppose not; but I've got my self-respect, and I can't marry the son of a man that despises me openly like he does. I won't be bullied by him, I promise you—a cruel hunks he is, and would gore me to pieces if he dared! No better than a mad bull, I call him."