She’s lying, Phœbe!
Judith:
The father of my bairn is—William Burn—
A stranger to these parts. Now, let me pass.
(She tries to slip by, but Phœbe still does not make way for her.)
Jim:
Ay, Phœbe, let her go. She tells the truth.
I thought ... But I mistook her. Let her go.
I never reckoned you’d be a reesty nag:
Yet, you can set your hoofs, and champ your bit
With any mare, I see. I doubt you’ll prove
A rackle ramstam wife, if you’ve your head.
She’s answered what you asked; though, why, unless ...
Well, I don’t blame the wench: she should ken best.
Phœbe:
Judith, you lie.
Judith:
I lie! You mean ...