"Alice," he said suddenly—"Do you think as how you could ever care about Boarzell?"
"No, I'm quite sure I couldn't."
"Not ever?"
"Never."
"Why?"
"Because I hate it. It's spoiling your life. It's making a beast and a maniac of you. You think of nothing—absolutely nothing—but a miserable rubbish-heap that most people would be throwing their old kettles on."
"That's just the point, my gal. Where most föalkses 'ud be throwing old kettles, I shall be growing wheat."
"And what good will that do you?"
"Good!—when I've two hundred acres sown with grain!"