Day after day she pounded him with curses, saying that her mother looked down on him from Heaven and sent a curse, to which he laughed. He refrained from pointing out that the case would be exactly the same if she was not a lady. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. I told him instantly and shamelessly that the play was going to be worth ten thousand pounds. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried.
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