"She's the pick.

My word, and you _are_ a beauty, bridling to yourself there, and thinking dirt of me.

Go on, I like you for it: you can't show too much spirit for William Wright." Molly's hand closed over Hetty's two, clasped and lying in her lap: Hetty sat motionless as a statue.

"If only your father would trade you off against an honest debt--But you're gentry: I knows the sort.
Well, well, 'tis a long tramp back to Owston: so here's wishing you good night, missies all.

If I take back no money, and no pay but a pint of sour cider, I've seen the prettiest picter in all Lincolnshire; so we'll count it a holiday." He was gone.