"'I loath, abhor, my very soul with strong disgust is stirred, when e're I see, or hear, or tell ov the dark bev'rage ov hell.'"
The dumpy little figure, swelling like a pouter pigeon's, was so irresistibly ludicrous that Shelby forgot his troubles and threw back his head in a gust of laughter.
"Think it's funny, I s'pose." Her face was vinegar. "'Tain't to be expected a boy brung up in a distillery 'ud know better."
Shelby sobered.
"Confine yourself to facts, please," he interposed. "My grandfather's entirely respectable distilling business was closed out before I was born."
"'Twa'n't b'fore your pa was made a drunkard, Ross Shelby."
He went red with impotent anger.
"By God!" he swore. "If—if you were a man—"
"There you go a-swearin' at a poor weak female."
"Let me pass," he choked. "Let me pass. I don't know what I may say to you."