I like this place. It's mine. I've got duties up here.
I'm a magistrate and all that."
Chevenix was now very hot. "Magistrate be damned. Do you mean to tell me
that you profess to love a woman, and turn her into a servant because you
want to try poachers? And you talk about the sun in her hair! And then--
upon my soul, Ingram, you sicken me."
"You fool," said Ingram. "I tell you it was her own idea. She loves the
place. She loves it a lot more than she does me. It's been a continual joy
to her. Why, where would she have been while I was in India--all that
year--if she hadn't had all this in her hands? You don't know what you're
talking about."
His voice rang down his scorn. Chevenix began to stammer.
"You're hopeless, Nevile, utterly hopeless. Every word you say gives up
your case. What's it to do with you whether she likes it or not? I'm not
talking of her, but of you. You silly ass, don't you see where you are?
You fall in love with a woman and make her your head housemaid. Then you
say, Oh, but she likes it. It's not what she likes we're talking about;
it's what you can bring yourself to do with her. Wait a bit now. There's
more to it. You play about here, there, and all over the shop.
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