"Anyhow I won't have it." said Troy, contemptuously.
He wrapped the packet of gold in the notes, and threw the whole into the road.
Boldwood shook his clenched fist at him. "You juggler of Satan! You black hound! But I'll punish you yet; mark me, I'll punish you yet!"
Another peal of laughter. Troy then closed the door, and locked himself in.
Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood's dark downs of Weatherbury like an unhappy Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron.