“Am I?”
“Yes; that’s the same miserable sickly tale you have told to half-a-dozen of the silly girls in the village. I know you thoroughly now. How dare you follow me and speak to me? If I were to tell my brother he’d nearly kill you.”
“Quite, p’raps, with a drop out of one of his bottles.”
“I can never forgive myself for having listened to the silly, contemptible flattery of the cast-off lover of a labourer’s daughter.”
“Oh, I like that, Jenny; what’s the good of bringing all that up? That’s been over ever so long. It was only sowing wild oats.”
“The only sort that you are ever likely to have to sow. I know all now—everything; so go to her, and never dare to speak to me again.”
“What? Go back to Sally? Well, you are a jealous little thing.”
“I, jealous—of you?” she said, with contempt in her tone and manner.
“Yes, that’s what’s the matter with you, little one. But go on; I like it. Shows me you love me.”
“I? Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Jenny derisively. “Do you think I don’t know everything?”