Oh, I know the kind--afraid of their own shadows, and no more spunk in them than in so many sheep.

That 's what they are--sheep.

Well, I 'm not a sheep, and there 's no more to be said.
And I don't want to go on your picnic, and, what 's more, I 'm not going." The tears welled up in Bessie's brown eyes, and her lips were trembling.
This angered him unreasonably.

What were girls good for, anyway ?--always blubbering, and interfering, and carrying on.

There was no sense in them.
"A fellow can't say anything without making you cry," he began, trying to appease her.