He's read hundreds and hundreds of books."
"That's it--too many books. Books is good enough but they ain't the
right sort 'er meat for a feller that's got to hit out for himself in a
new country. They're all right in the city where you got the butcher
and the police and a kerosene lamp to read 'em by. David 'ud be a fine
boy in the town just as his books is suitable in the town. But this
ain't the town. And the men that are the right kind out here ain't
particularly set on books. I'd 'a' chose a harder feller for you,
Missy, that could have stood up to anything and didn't have no soft
feelings to hamper him."
"Rubbish," she snapped. "Why don't you encourage me?"
Her tone drew his eyes, sharp as a squirrel's and charged with quick
concern. Her face was partly turned away. The curve of her cheek was
devoid of its usual dusky color, her fingers played on her under lip as
if it were a little flute.
"What do you want to be encouraged for?" he said low, as if afraid of
being overheard.
She did not move her head, but looked at the bluffs.
"I don't know," she answered, then hearing her--voice hoarse cleared
her throat.
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