Then he smoked a cigarette and got into bed, feeling more secure.
Determined not to submit to any more of Mary's caresses, and feeling infinitely small and mean over the realization that he had already permitted her to carry her affection too far, he frowned at her when he went into the kitchen after washing the next morning, gruffly replying when she wished him a cheery, "Good morning," and grasping her arms when she attempted to kiss him.
He blushed, though, when her eyes reproached him.
"I ain't used to bein' mushed over," he told her.

"We'll get along a heap better if you cut out the kissin'." "Why, Will!" she said, her lips trembling.
She set them though, instantly, and went about her duties, leaving Sanderson to stand in the center of the room feeling like a brute.
They breakfasted in silence--almost.

Sanderson saw her watching him--covert glances that held not a little wonder and disappointment.
And then, when the meal was nearly finished, she looked at him with a taunting half-smile.
"Didn't you sleep good, Will ?" Sanderson looked fairly at her.

That "Will" was already an irritation to him, for it continually reminded him of the despicable part he was playing.

He knew what he was going to say would hurt her, but he was determined to erect between them a barrier that would prevent a repetition of any demonstrations of affection of the brother and sister variety.
He didn't want to let her continue to show affection for him when he knew that, if she knew who he really was, she would feel more tike murdering him.
"Look here, Mary," he said, coldly, "I've never cared a heap for the name Bransford.