"Why did you ask that scoundrel, Rawdon Crawley, to dine?" said the Rector to his lady, as they were walking home through the park. "I don't want the fellow. He looks down upon us country people as so many blackamoors. He's never content unless he gets my yellow-sealed wine, which costs me ten shillings a bottle, hang him! Besides, he's such an infernal character--he's a gambler--he's a drunkard--he's a profligate in every way. He shot a man in a duel--he's over head and ears in debt, and he's robbed me and mine of the best part of Miss Crawley's fortune. Waxy says she has him"--here the Rector shook his fist at the moon, with something very like an oath, and added, in a melancholious tone, "--down in her will for fifty thousand; and there won't be above thirty to divide."

"Why did you ask that scoundrel, Rawdon Crawley, to dine?" said the Rector to his lady as they walked back across the park. "I don't want the fellow. He's a gambler - a drunkard - a profligate in every way. He shot a man in a duel, he's head over ears in debt, and he's robbed us of the best part of Miss Crawley's fortune. She has him down in her will for fifty thousand."
