Eating my best
butter, too! Ma fe, fat is good enough for the likes of you," and he
stretched a long arm and lifted the dish of golden butter from the
board--butter, too, which Nance and her mother had made themselves after
also milking the cows.
"Put that down!" said Gard, in a voice like the taps of a hammer.
"You get out--bravache! Bretteur! I'm master here."
"In six weeks--if you live that long. Until things are properly divided
you'll keep out of this, if you're well advised."
"I will, will I? We'll see about that, Mister Bully. I know what you're
up to, trying to fool our Nance with your foreign ways, and I won't have
it. She's not for the likes of you or any other man that's got a wife
and children over in England--"
This was the suddenly-thought-of burden of a discussion over the cups
one night at the canteen, soon after Gard's arrival, when the
possibility of his being a married man had been mooted and had remained
in Tom's turgid brain as a fact.
"By the Lord!" cried Gard, starting up in black fury, "if you can't
behave yourself I'll break every bone in your body.
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