‘My turf-stack, my dear,’ said my master, and bit his lip.
Where have you lived, my lady, all your life, not to know a turf-stack when you see it? thought I; but I said nothing. Then by and by she takes out her glass, and begins spying over the country.
‘And what’s all that black swamp out yonder, Sir Kit?’ says she.
‘My bog, my dear,’ says he, and went on whistling.
‘It’s a very ugly prospect, my dear,’ says she.
‘You don’t see it, my dear,’ says he, ‘for we’ve planted it out; when the trees grow up in summer-time—’ says he.
‘Where are the trees,’ said she, ‘my dear?’ still looking through her glass.
‘You are blind, my dear,’ says he; ‘what are these under your eyes?’
‘These shrubs?’ said she.
‘Trees,’ said he.