Mrs. Brul. Well, and hav'n't I a face, pray?
Dennis. That you have, my lambkin! You have had one these fifty years, I'll bound for you.
Mrs. Brul. Fifty years! you are the greatest brute that ever dug potatoes.
Re-enter Peregrine, supporting Mary.
Pereg. This way. Cheer your spirits; the ruffian with whom I saw you struggling, has fled across the Heath; but his speed prevented my saving your property. Was your money, too, in the parcel with your clothes?
Mary. All I possessed in the world, sir;—and he has so frighten'd me!—Indeed. I thank you, sir; indeed I do!
Pereg. Come, come, compose yourself. Whither are you going, pretty one?
Mary. I must not tell, sir.
Pereg. Then whither do you come from?
Mary. No body must know, sir.