"Is that so wonderful, Martin?"
"Why, a man's thoughts are but thoughts," says I, watching where she braided a long tress of her hair.
"Some men's thoughts are so easily read!" says she.
"Are mine?"
"Sometimes, Martin!" Now at this I blenched and well I might, and she smiled down at the long tress of hair she was braiding and then glances at me mighty demure; quoth she: "But only sometimes, Martin. Now, for instance, you are wondering why of late I have taken to wearing my hair twisted round my head and pinned with these two small pieces of wood in fashion so unsightly!"
"Aye, truly," says I wondering, "indeed and so I was! Though I do not think it unsightly!"
"I wear it so, Martin, first because my hairpins are yet to make, and second because I would not have you find my hairs in your baked goat, boiled goat, roast, fried or stewed goat. And speaking of goat brings us back where we began, and we began yearning for a change of food."
"As to that," says I, taking her half-finished hairpin from my pocket and drawing my knife, "the lagoon is full of fish had I but a hook—"
"Or a net, Martin."
"How should we contrive our net?"