face and the black eyes, and the men liked an oddity. She kindled their attention.

She was very angry because Marriott, a gentleman-farmer from Ambergate, called her the little pole-cat.

“Why, you're a pole-cat,” he said to her.

“I'm not,” she flashed.

“You are. That's just how a pole-cat goes.”

She thought about it.

“Well, you're — you're — — ” she began.

“I'm what?”

She looked him up and down.

“You're a bow-leg man.