cursed stories,—No, no, it cannot be—it is impossible!
Re-enter Jonathan from the house, scratching his head, and looking behind.
Jon. 'Faith there is hot work going on amongst them! thank heaven I am out again!
Har. What do you mean?
Jon. 'Faith! that little lady, in that there house, is the best hand at a scold, saving Mary Macmurrock, my wife's mother, that ever my too blessed eyes looked upon, lord sir! (going nearer him) her tongue goes ting, ting, ting, as shrill as the bell of any pieman, and then, sir, (going nearer him) her two eyes look out of her head, as though they were a couple of glow-worms, and then sir, he, he, he! (laughing, and going close up to him) she claps her little hands so, as if—
Har. Shut your fool's mouth and be damn'd to you! (Kicks Jonathan off the stage in a violent passion; then leans his back to a tree, and seems thoughtful for some time, and very much troubled)
Enter Agnes from the house, with a stormy look on her face.
Ag. So you are still loitering here, Harwood? you have been very much amused I suppose, with the conversation of those good folks, you have talked with.
Har. No, not much amused, madam, though