“She must go her own way. The perception of him flooded her being. He kissed her at the door. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Advancing with a slow firm step to the stone-block he placed his left foot upon it, drew himself up to his full height, and fixed a look so stern upon Jonathan, that the thief-taker quailed before it. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. I'll be at the Cross Shovels in the course of the day. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him.
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