Now listen to me:--you love Harry--" "No! I DESPISE him! I told him so!" She had risen from her seat and had moved to the mantel, where she stood looking into the fire, her back toward him.
"Don't you interrupt me, you blessed girl--just you listen to Uncle George for a minute.

You DO love Harry--you can't help it--nobody can.
If you had seen him this morning you would have thrown your arms around him in a minute--I came near doing it myself.

Of course he's wild, reckless, and hot-headed like all the Rutters and does no end of foolish things, but you wouldn't love him if he was different.

He's just like Spitfire--never keeps still a minute--restless, pawing the ground, or all four feet in the air--then away she goes! You can't reason with her--you don't wish to; you get impatient when she chafes at the bit because you are determined she shall keep still, but if you wanted her to go like the wind and she couldn't, you'd be more dissatisfied than ever.

The pawing and chafing is of no matter; it is her temperament that counts.