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Rob. And did he order you to do this?

Gar. As sure as I hold this spade in my hand.

Rob. I should as soon have thought of tearing the turf from my mother's grave as of doing this thing. Well, well; perhaps he has forgot that she liked them.

Gar. Now I rather think he remember'd, when he gave me the orders, that another lady likes them not; and a dead woman's fancy match'd against a living woman's freak, with a middle-aged widower, hear ye me, who has just pull'd the black coat off his back, has but a sorry chance, Robert.

Rob. Ay, and he has pull'd the black coat too soon off his back. But away with it!—I'll think no more of what you say—it is impossible.

Gar. May I never handle a spade again, if she did not squint to this direct spot, with her horrid looking grey eyes, the last time she walked thro' the garden, saying it was a mass of confusion that ought to be cleared away, and he gave me the orders for doing it the very next morning.

Rob. Who could have believed this? Who could have believed this but a few months ago, when she rambled thro' these walks, with all her white-frock'd train gamboling round her?

Gar. Nay, good Robert, don't be so down o' the mouth about it: the loss of his wife and an unlook'd-for legacy of twenty thousand pounds, may set a man's brains a working upon new plans. There is nothing very wonderful in that, man. He will get his lady-wife and the borough