Howel shall never have my consent to marry Netta, and there's an end of it.' 'But suppose they are determined,' said Mrs Prothero.
'Then I'll wash my hands of 'em for ever, and vow Netta's no girl of mine.

Go you, Owen, and send off that fine yellar-band, sent to astonish me, and tell him I'll have nothing to do with his master nor him.' 'But, father, you must write!' 'Write! not I: but stop, I'll write.

Bring the paper.

Haven't you got any with a fine gloss, and coloured ?' 'Now, David, bach, if you would only consider a little.

I am really afraid of the consequences.' 'Now, mother, my mind's made up, and you won't wheedle me in this matter.