"Aren't you going to speak?" she flamed.
"I've decided to wait."
"Well, I haven't. Ask me this minute, sir, to marry you."
"Ce'tainly, if you cayn't wait. Miss Mackenzie, will you--"
"No, sir, I won't--not if you were the last man on earth," she
interrupted hotly, whipping herself into a genuine rage. "I never
was so insulted in my life. It would be ridiculous if it weren't
so--so outrageous. You EXPECT, do you? And it isn't conceit, but
a deep-seated certainty you can't get away from."
He had her fairly. "Then you DID read the letter."
"Yes, sir, I read it--and for sheer, unmatched impudence I have
never seen its like."
"Now, I wish you would tell me what you REALLY think," he
drawled.
Not being able, for reasons equestrian, to stamp her foot, she
gave her bronco the spur.
When Collins again found conversation practicable, the Rocking
Chair, a white adobe huddle in the moonlight, lay peacefully
beneath them in the alley.
"It's a right quaint old ranch, and it's seen a heap of
rough-and-tumble life in its day. If those old adobe bricks could
tell stories, I expect they could put some of these romances out
of business.
Pages:
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342