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“ I am very angry,” pouted the maid. “ In heaven’s name, why?” questioned the bachelor. “ You have, so to speak, bought me.” “ Impossible: your price is prohibitive.” “ Indeed, when a thousand pounds—” “ You are worth fifty and a hundred times as much. Pooh!” “ That interjection doesn’t answer my question.” “ I don’t think it is one which needs answering,” said the young man lightly; “there are more important things to talk about than pounds, shillings, and sordid pence.” “ Oh, indeed! Such as—” “ Love, on a day such as this is. Look at the sky, blue as your eyes; at the sunshine, golden as your hair.” “ Warm as your affection, you should say.” “ Affection! So cold a word, when I love you.” “ To the extent of one thousand pounds.” “ Lucy, you are a—woman. That money did not buy your love, but the consent of your step-father to our marriage. Had I not humored his whim, he would have insisted upon your marrying Random.” Lucy pouted again and in scorn.