’Twas not persuasive.
“’Tis a white kiss,” said she, seeking, in her way, to deck the thing with attractions.
I would not turn.
“’Tis all silk.”
It budged me not, though I craved the kiss with a mounting sense of need, a vision of despair. It budged me not: I would not be beguiled.
“An’ oh, Dannie!” she besought, with her hands appealing, “’tis awful expensive!”
I returned.
“Take it,” she sobbed.
I pecked her lips.
“Volume II., page 26!” roared my uncle, his broad red face appearing at that moment in the companionway. “You done well, Dannie! ’Tis quite t’ the taste o’ Skipper Chesterfield. You’re sailin’ twelve knots by the log, lad, on the course you’re steerin’!”