"You didn't get shot," Grant contradicted for the sake of drawing
more sparks of temper where temper seemed quaintly out of place,
and stared hard at her drooping profile. "You just got nicely
missed; a bullet that only scrapes off a little skin can't be
said to hit. I'd hate to hit a bear like that."
"I believe you're wishing you HAD killed me! You might at least
have some conscience in the matter, and be sorry you shot a lady.
But you're not. You just wish you had murdered me. You hate
girls--you said so. And I don't know what business it is of
yours, if I want to play a joke on my cousin, or why you had to
be sleeping outside, anyway. I've a perfect right to be a ghost
if I choose--and I don't call it nice, or polite, or gentlemanly
for you to chase me all over the place with a gun, trying to kill
me! I'll never speak to you again as long as I live. When I say
that I mean it. I never liked you from the very start, when I
first saw you this afternoon. Now I hate and despise you.
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