"Enter Laertes and Ophelia." (Both Rectors of Dimchurch; both with deep bass voices; both about five feet high, pitted with the small-pox, and adorned round the neck with dingy white cravats.) Mr.Finch goes on and on and on.

Mrs.Finch and the baby simultaneously close their eyes in slumber.

Madame Pratolungo suffers such tortures of restlessness in her lower limbs, that she longs for a skilled surgeon to take out his knife and deliver her from her own legs.
Mr.Finch advances in deeper and deeper bass, in keener and keener enjoyment, to the Fourth Scene.

("Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.") Mercy! what do I hear?
Is relief approaching to us from the world outside?
Are there footsteps in the hall?
Yes! Mrs.Finch opens her eyes; Mrs.Finch hears the footsteps, and rejoices in them as I do.

Reverend Hamlet hears nothing but his own voice.