“O Lord,” cried Miss Larolles, “now you put it in my head, I dare say that wretch has got my dog! only think how horrid!”
“I saw plainly,” said Mr Gosport, looking significantly at Cecilia, “that he was feloniously inclined, though I must confess I took him not for a dog-stealer.”
Miss Larolles then, running up to Mr Meadows, called out, “I have a prodigious immense favour to ask of you, Mr Meadows.”
“Ma'am!” cried Mr Meadows, with his usual start.
“It's only to know, whether if that horrid creature should come back, you could not just ride up to him and shoot him, before he gets to us? Now will you promise me to do it?”
“You are vastly good,” said he, with a vacant smile; “what a charming evening! Do you love the country?”
“Yes, vastly; only I'm so monstrously tired, I can hardly stir a step. Do you like it?”
“The country? O no! I detest it! Dusty hedges, and chirping sparrows! 'Tis amazing to me any body can exist upon such terms.”
“I assure you,” cried Miss Larolles, “I'm quite of your opinion. I hate the country so you've no notion. I wish with all my heart it was all under ground. I declare, when I first go into it for the summer, I cry so you can't think. I like nothing but London.—Don't you?”
“London!” repeated Mr Meadows, “O melancholy! the sink of all vice and depravity. Streets without light! Houses without air! Neighbourhood without society! Talkers without listeners!—'Tis astonishing any rational being can endure to be so miserably immured.”