But if he had expected that this daughter of a Southwestern fighter
would betray any enthusiasm over her lover's participation in one of
their characteristic feuds--if he looked for any fond praise for his own
prowess, he was bitterly mistaken. She loosened her arm from his neck
of her own accord, unwound the braid, and putting her two little hands
clasped between her knees, crossed her small feet before her, and,
albeit still in his lap, looked the picture of languid dejection.
"Maw ought to have more sense, and you ought to have lit out of the
window after me," she said with a lazy sigh. "Fightin' ain't in your
line--it's too much like THEM. That Seth's sure to get even with you."
"I can protect myself," he said haughtily. Nevertheless he had a
depressing consciousness that his lithe and graceful burden was somewhat
in the way of any heroic expression.
"Seth can lick you out of your boots, chile," she said with naive
abstraction. Then, as he struggled to secure an upright position, "Don't
git riled, honey.
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