"I will not," she cried, rising.
I caught her arms and forced her back into the seat. "You will," I answered.
"Very well," she said with quivering lips. "If you wish to take advantage of the friendship I have shown you, and, because you are strong, make me hear what I have forbidden you to say, I'm helpless."
"All the mean things you say sha'n't stop me. Now, as long as you must listen, won't you pay attention?" I asked this in my most wheedling tone. I knew I'd fetch her. She stayed stiff for about ten seconds. Then the dimples came.
"It makes me so angry to think I can't get angry with you, I don't know what to do," she snapped at me. "You have no business to talk to me this way. I shouldn't stand it for a minute. You're nothing but a great bully, bullying a poor little woman, you nice boy! Who ever heard of such an argument? Because you make me listen, I must pay attention! Well, to show you what a friend I am, I will."
"Thank you, Mary," I said, holding out my hand. "Thank you, dear. You'll not be the worse for hearing the truth. It isn't like you to condemn a man unheard."
"I heard him."
"You heard a lunatic—he told me; why will you call up the worst of him and believe only in that?"
She sprang up, outraged. "I do not call up the worst of him! That is a cowardly excuse—he should be man enough to—"
"Wait: I never meant you did it intentionally. Can't you see how anxious he might be to please you? Can't you believe that if he did something he thought would please you greatly, and you called him a rascal for it, that the worst of him would likely come on top?"