The fellow was a boor, of course, but, by Jove! he was a magnificent boor.

It had been long since Gay had seen such an outburst of primitive feeling--long since he had come so close to the good red earth on which we walk and of which we are made.
"You're out of your head, Abel," said Molly--Gay turned away from them--and the tone in which she spoke was hardly calculated to bring him back to the place he had deserted.

"You will say things you'll regret, but I'll never forgive." "I'm sick of your eternal forgiveness," he retorted.

"I've been forgiven every time you got into a temper, and I suppose I'll be forgiven next every time you are kissed." The "rousing" which had threatened every Revercomb was upon him at last.
"Well, as a matter of fact it is time enough for you to forgive me when I ask you to," she returned.
"You needn't ask.

It's too much this time, and I'll be damned before I will do it." Bending over a grey skeleton of last year's golden-rod, she caressed it gently, without breaking its ghostly bloom.