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"'This Loller here wol precilen us somewhat. 'Nay by my father's soule! that schal he nat, Sayde the Schipman, 'here schal he not preche, We schal no gospel glosen here ne teche. We leven all in the gret God, quod he. He wolden sowen some diffcultee." Canterbury Tales. Dorothea had been safe at Freshitt Hall nearly a week before she had asked any dangerous questions.
"Yes, you fear you fear!" broke out Krag, in a highpitched, scraping voice. "You eternal loller!" Maskull kept looking from one to the other in amazement. There seemed to be a determined hostility between the two, which indicated an intimate previous acquaintance.
And to turn on the light meant that he would turn on, too, a flood of querulous protest from his wife, Bella, who lay asleep beside him. When for forty-five years of your life you have risen at four-thirty daily, it is difficult to learn to loll. To do it successfully, you must be a natural-born loller to begin with and revert. Bella Westerveld was and had. So there she lay, asleep.
It is, perhaps, not without significance that the poor parson in the Canterbury Tales, the only one of his ecclesiastical pilgrims whom Chaucer treats with respect, is suspected by the host of the Tabard to be a "loller," that is, a Lollard, or disciple of Wiclif, and that, because he objects to the jovial innkeeper's swearing "by Goddes bones."
When for forty-five years of your life you have risen at four-thirty daily, it is difficult to learn to loll. To do it successfully you must be a natural-born loller to begin with, and revert. Bella Westerveld was and had. So there she lay, asleep. Old Ben wasn't and hadn't. So there he lay, terribly wide-awake, wondering what made his heart thump so fast when he was lying so still.
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