"You're wearing a red ruffled apron."
"I'm making it fashionable."
"You're making it stretched. It was never meant for someone your height."
"Nothing in this kitchen was meant for someone my height."
"That's because normal-sized people do the baking."
"I'm normal-sized."
"For a giant."
They carried the boxes across the square to the inn, where Mrs. Morrison was waiting with barely contained glee.
"Marianne! Mr. Fletcher! How wonderful to see you've reconciled after your morning... encounter."
"We didn't need to reconcile," Marianne said. "We weren't fighting."
"Fighting is one word for it."
"We literally weren't doing anything except falling."
"Falling for each other?"
"Falling on each other. Very different."
"Not from where I was standing."
"You were too far away!"
"I have excellent vision."
"You wear spectacles!"
"For reading, not for observing romance."
"There was no romance!"
"The lady doth protest too much," Mrs. Morrison quoted.
"The lady doth protest exactly the right amount," Marianne countered.
The committee was already gathering in the inn's dining room—an assortment of village worthies who seemed to have been chosen for their ability to have opinions about everything. The land steward was holding court at the head of the table, his cousin from Nottingham looking slightly overwhelmed by the rural enthusiasm.
"Ah, Marianne!" the land steward boomed. "We heard about your morning adventure!"
"It wasn't an adventure."
"Mrs. Morrison says you were compromised!"
"Mrs. Morrison says many things."
"Are we having a Christmas wedding?"
"We're having a Christmas fair. That's quite enough excitement."
"But Mr. Fletcher seems like such a nice young man."
