“’Twas but a figure of speech, girl! Souls, being abstractions, ha’ no need to—tush! Why a plague should we puzzle your pretty head with metaphysics? What know you o’ the soul, child—or I, for that matter?”
“Not much, your honour,” she answered submissively. “Though parson do say the soul is more precious than much fine gold.”
“Have you a soul, I wonder, Rose?”
“I ... hope so, sir.”
“Then look before you, child, and tell me what you see.”
“A dusty road!” she sighed.
“And is it nothing more to you, girl? Doth it strike no deeper note? Do you not see it as a path mysterious, leading to the unknown—the very symbol of life itself? And yet, poor child, how should you?” he sighed. “Let us talk of simpler things.”
“Oh, thank ye kindly, sir,” she sighed. “An’ I should like to hear about yourself, an’t please your honour.”
“Rose!” he exclaimed in sudden dubiety.
“Yes, your honour?”