“Madelon,” whispered Eugene, with a red flush stealing over his dark face, his eyes dropping a little before her, “you don't—think she will—marry him?”
“Who? Dorothy?”
Eugene nodded.
“Of course she will—marry him, Eugene Hautville.”
Eugene set his sister down suddenly and got up. “All I've got to say is, then,” he cried, with a movement of his right arm like a blow, “it's a damned shame that the child can't be taken care of among us all.”
“What do you mean, Eugene Hautville?”
“I mean that she had better lie down in her grave than marry that—”
“Take care what you say, Eugene.”
“I say she had—”
“Better lie down in her grave than marry him—than marry Burr Gordon? What do you mean? Who are you, that you talk in this way? He is better than you all; not one of you is fit to tie his shoe.”