_ Here's a key will open it.
_Ash._ Drabbit it, hold thy tongue, thou wold fool? [_Aside._] No,
Susan. I'll not zee it--I'll believe my child.
_Susan._ You shall not find your confidence ill-placed--it is true the
gentleman declared he loved me; it is equally true that declaration was
not unpleasing to me--Alas! it is also true, that his letter contains
sentiments disgraceful to himself, and insulting to me.
_Ash._ Drabbit it, if I'd knaw'd that, when we were cudgelling a bit, I
wou'd ha' lapt my stick about his ribs pratty tightish, I wou'd.
_Susan._ Pray, father, don't you resent his conduct to me.
_Ash._ What! mayn't I lather un a bit?
_Susan._ Oh, no! I've the strongest reasons to the contrary!
_Ash._ Well, Sue, I won't--I'll behave as pratty as I always do--but it
be time to go to the green, and zee the fine zights--How I do hate the
noise of thic dom'd bunch of keys--But bless thee, my child--dan't
forget that vartue to a young woman be vor all the world
like--like--Dang it, I ha' gotten it all in my head; but zomehow--I
can't talk it--but vartue be to a young woman what corn be to a blade
o'wheat, do you zee; for while the corn be there it be glorious to the
eye, and it be called the staff of life; but take that treasure away,
and what do remain? why nought but thic worthless straw that man and
beast do tread upon.
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