_Mrs. Uncouth._ You have been hiding from me! Now see yourself, sir,
what I have come to through your indulgence! What do you think of our
son’s new dress for his uncle’s betrothal? What do you think of the
caftan that Tríshka has gotten up?
_Uncouth_ (_timidly stammering_). A li-ittle baggy.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ You are baggy yourself, you wiseacre!
_Uncouth._ I thought, wifey, that you thought that way.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ Are you blind yourself?
_Uncouth._ My eyes see nothing by the side of yours.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ A fine husband the Lord has blessed me with! He can’t
even make out what is loose and what tight.
_Uncouth._ I have always relied upon you in such matters, and rely even
now.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ You may rely also upon this, that I will not let the
churls do as they please. Go right away, sir, and tell them to flog----