She's been ashamed of my Indian blood all along; she said so.

And I'm not a good lover; I neglected her all the while this trouble lasted, and I paid more attention to Georgie Howard than I did to her--and I didn't satisfactorily explain about that hair and knife that Hagar had.

And--oh, it isn't the killing, altogether! I guess we were both a good deal mistaken in our feelings." "Well, I hope so," sighed Phoebe, wondering secretly at the decadence of love.

An emotion that could burn high and hot in a week, flare bravely for a like space, and die out with no seared heart to pay for the extravagance--she shook her head at it.

That was not what she had been taught to call love, and she wondered how a man and a maid could be mistaken about so vital an emotion.
"I suppose," she added with unusual sarcasm for her, "you'll be falling in love with Georgie Howard, next thing anybody knows; and maybe that will last a week or ten days before you find out you were MISTAKEN!" Good Indian gave her one of his quick, sidelong glances.
"She would not be eternally apologizing to herself for liking me, anyway," he retorted acrimoniously, as if he found it very hard to forgive Evadna her conscious superiority of race and upbringing.
"Squaw." "Oh, I haven't a doubt of that!" Phoebe rose to the defense of her own blood.