"What is my mother to _you_ ?" The time had come.
John's bright hazel eyes had grown stern; his middle-aged face, flushed with the emotion his own words had aroused, yet controlled and calm in every line of handsome feature and steady brow, confronted Peter's angry, bewildered gaze.
"She is the woman I love," said John.

"The woman I mean to make my wife." He remained seated, silently waiting for Peter to imbibe and assimilate his words.
After a quick gasp of incredulous indignation, Peter, too, sat silent at his side.
John gave him time to recover before he spoke again.
"I hope," he said, very gently, "that when you have thought it over, you won't mind it so much.

As it's going to be--it would be pleasanter if you and I could be friends.

I think, later on, you may even perceive advantages in the arrangement--under the circumstances; when you have recovered from your natural regret in realizing that she must leave Barracombe--" "It isn't that," said Peter, hoarsely.

He felt he must speak; and he also desired, it must be confessed, to speak offensively, and relieve himself somewhat of the accumulated rage and resentment that was burning in his breast.