“I,” Barnaby sniffed haughtily, “would rather be dead than a peasant like thee.” And he was indeed dead, but the fact remained. She had it worse than him, with no manners and no money, and more was the pity that she couldn’t even see it.

Barnaby drifted bodily into her now with a vicious air. “Mayhaps I shall haunt thee all winter,” he threatened. She might be a devil, but he could make himself a nuisance. (Miserable as he was in her company, he was certain he could make her life a misery too if he committed to the bit.)

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