He read the letter aloud. Sophia listened with the studied air of one for whom, even in these days, a title possessed some surreptitious allurement.

“Cos,” says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at all shaken in his certainty, “cos that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd. It is her and it an’t her. It an’t her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore ’em, and it’s her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov’ring and hooked it.”

Hell is but a boggarde to scarre children.

You don't want no problem, want no problem with me, bih!