He frowned in a troubled way.
“Ay,” I repeated, convinced, “you may have my dear sister. I’m not afraid.”
“Davy,” he said, now so grave that my heart jumped, “you give her to the man I am.”
“I’m not carin’,” I replied, “what you was.”
“You do not know.”
Apprehension grappled with me. “I’m not wantin’ t’ know,” I protested. “Come, zur,” I pleaded, “leave us go home.”
“Once, Davy,” he said, “I told you that I had been wicked.”
“You’re not wicked now.”
“I was.”
“I’m not carin’ what you was. Oh, zur,” I cried, tugging at his hand, “leave us go home!”