“No, no! I ain't loony. I want to make a proposal to you. I want to see if you won't marry me. I'm sick of Laviny. Let's you and me settle down together. I could have some peace then. And I think a whole lot of you, too,” he added, apparently as an afterthought.
Keziah's face was red now, and growing redder every instant.
“Kyan Pepper!” she cried in amazed incredulity. “Kyan Pepper, do you—”
“Hurry up!” pleaded Abishai, in agitated impatience. “Say yes quick. She'll be back in a minute.”
“Say YES! Why, you—”
“Don't stop to argue, Keziah. I've got 'most fifteen hundred dollars in the bank. Laviny keeps the pass book in her bureau, but you could get it from her. I own my house. I'm a man of good character. You're poor, but I don't let that stand in the way. Anyhow, you're a first-rate housekeeper. And I really do think an awful lot of you.”
Mrs. Coffin stepped no farther in the direction of the kitchen. Instead, she strode toward the rickety chair and its occupant. Kyan grasped the pipe with both hands.
“You poor—miserable—impudent—” began the lady.
“Why, Keziah, don't you WANT to?” He spoke as if the possibility of a refusal had never entered his mind. “I cal'lated you'd be glad. You wouldn't have to go away then, nor—My soul and body! some one's knockin' at the door! AND THIS DUMMED PIPE'S FETCHED LOOSE!”
The last sentence was a smothered shriek. Keziah heeded not. Neither did she heed the knock at the door. Her hands were opening and closing convulsively.