Come, you are ruffled. Let us go to the business of the morning.
I hate the business of the morning. Don't you see we are engaged in discussion.
I tell you, I hate the business of the morning. No, you don't. Don't I? Why not?
Because it is charity. Pshaw! Well, we must not neglect the business, if there be any distress in the parish.
Read the list, Humphrey. (Taking out a paper and reading.) "Jonathan Huggins, of Muck Mead, is put in prison for debt."
Why, it was only last week that Gripe, the attorney, recovered two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds.
Yes, and charged a hundred for his trouble, so seized the cottages for part of his bill,
and threw Jonathan into jail for the remainder. A harpy! I must relieve the poor fellow's distress.
And I must kick his attorney. "The curate's horse is dead." Pshaw! There's no distress in that.
Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty miles every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a year.
Why won't the vicar give him another nag? Because it is cheaper to get another curate ready mounted.
Well, send him the black pad which I purchased last Tuesday, and tell him to work him as long as he lives.
What else have we upon the list? Something out of the common,
there's one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer and a widower, come to lodge at Farmer Harrowby's, in the village,
he is, it seems, very poor, and more proud than poor, and more honest than proud.