Often I do no more than shake my head. But the moment her _minois mutin_ meets my eye, expostulatory words crowd to my lips. From a taciturn man I believe she would transform me into a talker. Whence comes the delight I take in that talk? It puzzles myself sometimes. The more _crne, malin, taquin_ is her mood, consequently the clearer occasion she gives me for disapprobation, the more I seek her, the better I like her. She is never wilder than when equipped in her habit and hat, never less manageable than when she and Zo come in fiery from a race with the wind on the hills; and I confess it--to this mute page I may confess it--I have waited an hour in the court for the chance of witnessing her return, and for the dearer chance of receiving her in my arms from the saddle. I have noticed (again it is to this page only I would make the remark) that she will never permit any man but myself to render her that assistance. I have seen her politely decline Sir Philip Nunnely's aid. She is always mighty gentle with her young baronet, mighty tender for his feelings, forsooth, and of his very thin-skinned _amour propre_. 
But the moment her mischievous face meets my eye, expostulatory words crowd to my lips, transforming me into a talker. It puzzles me sometimes. The more teasing her mood, the more I seek her, the better I like her.
"She is never wilder, never less manageable than when she comes in fiery from a ride on the hills; and I confess I have waited an hour in the courtyard for the chance of seeing her return, and for the dearer chance of lifting her from the saddle. I have noticed that she will never permit any man but myself to do that; not even Sir Philip Nunnely. She is always mighty gentle with her young baronet. 