I don't mind being called a squaw-man.

You're pretty near white, and you're good enough for me.

I'll treat you right--why, I'll even marry you if you're dead set on it.

Sure!" She could scarcely breathe, but checked her first inclination to call Poleon, knowing that it needed only a word from her to set that nut-brown savage at Runnion's throat.

Other thoughts began to crowd her brain and to stifle her.