“How much did you bid for her?”
“Och! I’sh ashamed to tell you, Shoodith.”
“Come, old rabbi, you needn’t be backward before me. How much?”
“Two hunder poundsh.”
“Two hundred pounds! Well, that is a high figure! If what you’ve told me be true, his own daughter isn’t worth so much. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Hush, Shoodith, dear! Don’t shpeak of that—for your life don’t shpeak of it. You may shpoil some plansh I hash about her.”
“Have no fear, good father. I never spoiled any plan of yours yet—have I?”
“No, no! You hash been a good shild, my daughter!—a good shild, s’help me gott, you hash.”
“But tell me; why would the Custos not sell? He likes money almost as well as yourself. Two hundred pounds is a large price for this copper-coloured wench—quite double what she’s worth.”
“Ach, Shoodith dear, it wash not Vochan hishelf that refused it.”