"No, no, no, you are right. You must not sacrifice yourself to a whim."
"No, I am wrong," pensively.
"You are right. It must not be," and then at the remembrance of Master Richard and Sir James, he flushed an angry hue and clenched his fists tightly.
"Must not be?" archly.
"Aye, it shall not be."
"Why?"
"Because I say it shall not be."
"Indeed, since when have I had a new master, or a master at all, for that matter?"
There was a rebellious tone in her voice, and a quick, tumultuous beating of her heart. To be told she should not do this or that was something new to her, the mistress of the Manor, and yet, his tone, his manner of speaking, that masterful way of asserting himself—she liked him better for it.
"I say it shall not be," doggedly.