"Yes, they do! And it's quite true besides! for everybody says so."
"Well, that's dreadful, anyhow. And how many do you suppose I shall have eaten like you?"
"You wouldn't have to eat one like me. If you did, Paul Lazaire would kill you for it."
"Paul Lazaire? Oh, I suppose Paul Lazaire will be a sweetheart of yours. Is that so, Jeannette dear?"
"Yes, he is my sweetheart. But I'm not going to marry him for all that! So you see."
"No, I wouldn't have him, I'm sure. Tell him you have got a better now—a Saxon."
"Fancy! That is fine, to be sure! Don't you think it! I'm not going to have a husband at all. They are horrid things, for they are never happy but when they are swilling ale. Just to think of my marrying a Saxon! That would be fine indeed!"
"Really now, my pretty Jeannette, I really am over head and ears in love with you; and if you were my wife, why, I should take great care of you."
"Wife, to be sure! The wife of a Saxon? Just think of it! I suppose I should have to run about in the woods all day, clothed in sheepskins; then I suppose I should have to creep into a hole in the earth at night. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
Wulfhere burst into a horse-laugh. "Perhaps you would prefer sleeping up a tree to creeping into a hole, would you?"