SHE cannot, quoth my uncle _Toby_, halting, when they had march’d up to
within twenty paces of Mrs. _Wadman_’s door—she cannot, corporal, take
it amiss.——
——She will take it, an’ please your honour, said the corporal, just as
the _Jew_’s widow at _Lisbon_ took it of my brother _Tom._——
——And how was that? quoth my uncle _Toby_, facing quite about to the
corporal.
Your honour, replied the corporal, knows of _Tom_’s misfortunes; but
this affair has nothing to do with them any further than this, That if
_Tom_ had not married the widow——or had it pleased God after their
marriage, that they had but put pork into their sausages, the honest
soul had never been taken out of his warm bed, and dragg’d to the
inquisition——’Tis a cursed place—added the corporal, shaking his
head,—when once a poor creature is in, he is in, an’ please your
honour, for ever.
’Tis very true; said my uncle _Toby_, looking gravely at Mrs.
_Wadman_’s house, as he spoke.
Nothing, continued the corporal, can be so sad as confinement for
life—or so sweet, an’ please your honour, as liberty.