He looks down upon us country people as so many blackamoors.

He's never content unless he gets my yellow-sealed wine, which costs me ten shillings a bottle, hang him! Besides, he's such an infernal character--he's a gambler--he's a drunkard--he's a profligate in every way.

He shot a man in a duel--he's over head and ears in debt, and he's robbed me and mine of the best part of Miss Crawley's fortune.

Waxy says she has him"-- here the Rector shook his fist at the moon, with something very like an oath, and added, in a melancholious tone, "-- down in her will for fifty thousand; and there won't be above thirty to divide." "I think she's going," said the Rector's wife.

"She was very red in the face when we left dinner.