“Never mind,” said she, struggling away from him. “Don’t touch me again; I don’t want to know her name.”
“Oh, but you must hear it,” replied the other, “I’ll tell it now, just to spite you. Her name is—”
“I won’t hear,” cried the girl, putting her fingers in her ears—“I won’t hear. Don’t you try for to tell me.”
“She is a pretty girl, I tell you,” said Boston, with a malicious twinkle in his eyes, “and you don’t know how I love her—you don’t want to hear her name?”
“No,” said Katrine, with a quiver of the lip, “I won’t hear it.”
“I’ve a good mind not to tell you, though I know you are dying to hear it. Yes, I will; her name is—” Katrine took her fingers partly out of her ears.
“A Dutch one,” went on Bainbridge. The girl again stopped her ears.
“But a pretty name for all that,” said Boston. “You don’t want to hear it; then I’ll tell it. I call her Katrine!”
“What’s her other name?”
“Veeder.”