DMERE. Good! You know what's being said, of course? GODLEIGH. [With respectful gravity] Yu'll pardon me, m'm, but ef an' in case yu was goin' to tell me, there's a rule in this 'ouse: "No scandal 'ere!" MRS. BRADMERE. [Twinkling grimly] You're too smart by half, my man. GODLEIGH. Aw fegs, no, m'm--child in yure 'ands. MRS. BRADMERE. I wouldn't trust you a yard. Once more, Godleigh! This is a Christian village, and we mean it to remain so. You look out for yourself. [The door opens to admit the farmers TRUSTAFORD and BURLACOMBE. They doff their hats to MRS.
BRADMERE, who, after one more sharp look at GODLEIGH, moves towards the door.] MRS. BRADMERE. Evening, Mr. Trustaford. [To BURLACOMBE] Burlacombe, tell your wife that duck she sent up was in hard training. [With one of her grim winks, and a nod, she goes.] TRUSTAFORD. [Replacing a hat which is black, hard, and not very new, on his long head, above a long face, clean-shaved but for little whiskers] What's the old grey mare want, then? [With a horse-laugh] 'Er's lukin' awful wise! GODLEIGH. [Enigmatically] Ah! TRUSTAFORD. [Sit
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