I's too old fur you. I doan want ter fool wid no chile."
Kintchin came closer and made an attempt to take her hand, shrewdly
watching the hot iron slowly moving over the bosom of a shirt. "I'll
burn da black hide ef you doan git erway. You bodders me."
The old rascal assumed an air of great astonishment. "Whut, er man
bodder er lady dat he lubs?"
"Didn't I tole you you couldn't lub me?"
"Couldn't lub you? Ain't you been er savin' yo' money all deze years,
an' ef er man kain't lub er lady dat's been er savin' her money, who kin
he lub?"
She gave him a look of contempt. "Oh, I knowd dar wuz er bug in de milk
pan. It's my little bit o' money you's atter, but you ain't gwine ter
git it. Dat money's ter bury me wid." And in a self-satisfied way she
nodded at him and resumed her work.
Kintchin stepped back, the word 'bury' having thrown a temporary pall
upon his cupidity, but soon he rallied and renewed his attack. "Funny
dat er lady will save all her life long jest ter be buried. I doan blebe
in deze yere 'spensive funuls nohow.
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