America, and you're only a fifth-rate painter with a paltry thousand
or so a year!
You
marry her!--why, I dare say she's refused a
hundred better men than you! She'd think you were mad! Why, she'd
think you were after her money! She--oh, she'd only think you a
precious cheeky ass, she would, and she'd be quite right. You
are
an
ass, Billy Woods! You ought to be locked up in some nice quiet stable,