“What did I say, you unnatural villain—I say I heard you talking about peace in the house.”
“Really my love, I—”
“Don’t try to escape out of it, you wretched little villain—wait till I get up, that’s all.”
With a sigh the unhappy husband, for nobody but a husband ever puts up with a woman’s tongue, and by some strange fatality, he who is the only person having a legal right to control it’s wagging, never, or very rarely, does so—turned away.
“Who’s down stairs?” cried the lady, peremptorily.
“Only Thomas, my dear.”
“Isn’t that lazy slut, Deborah, up yet?”
“Oh dear yes, my love.”
“Oh dear yes, indeed,” answered the lady; “I’ll box your ears and hers too when I get up. You’ve been winking at her again—I’ll be bound you have.”
“Really, my love—”