You drink--and I _hate_ that.

You're dangerous they say, and I'd be, I _am_ in constant dread you'll kill somebody.

Remember, Russ, I'm no Texan." This regret of Sally's, this faltering distress at giving me pain, was such sweet assurance that she did love me, better than she knew, that I was divided between extremes of emotion.
"Will you wait?
Will you trust me a little?
Will you give me a chance?
After all, maybe I'm not so bad as I seem." "Oh, if you weren't! Russ, are you asking me to trust you ?" "I beg you to--dearest.

Trust me and wait." "Wait?
What for?
Are you really on the square, Russ?
Or are you what George calls you--a drunken cowboy, a gambler, sharp with the cards, a gun-fighter ?" My face grew cold as I felt the blood leave it.

At that moment mention of George Wright fixed once for all my hate of him.
Bitter indeed was it that I dared not give him the lie.