. . ’ ‘Uh-oh,’ came from her infuriating suitor and his eyes dropped to the weapon she was dragging from the holster under her petticoat. Loved his memory still, for all he knew. There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. ‘I can argue with him very well indeed. Give me but leave to try. “A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more.
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