He had never had one; he was not sure that any girl or woman he
had ever known had ever loved him, and he was certain that he had never
loved any girl or woman. To be in love would be a new and piquant
experience for him. He did not know love, but he knew what passion was.
He had ever been the hunter. This trail might be dangerous, too, but he
would take his chances. He had seen her dislike of him whenever they had
met in the past, and he had never tried to soften her attitude towards
him. He had certainly whistled, but she had not come. Well, he would
whistle again--a different tune.
"You speak French much?" he asked almost eagerly, the insolence gone from
his tone. "Why didn't I know that?"
"I speak French in Manitou," she replied, "but nearly all the French
speak English there, and so I speak more English than French."
"Yes, that's it," he rejoined almost angrily again. "The English will
not learn French, will not speak French. They make us learn English,
and--"
"If you don't like the flag and the country, why don't you leave it?" she
interrupted, hardening, though she had meant to try and win him over to
Ingolby's side.
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