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An' he rakkered pauli, "The kris lelled mandys bavol ajaw." Penned the rye, "I kaum the kris'll del tute kushti bak." "Parraco, rya," penned the Rom pauli; "I'll kommer it kairs dovo." Sikk's the rye bitchered his sherro, the Rommany chal loured the krissko-curro ma the ruppeny rooy, an' kek dicked it.
I therefore curtly said, "Ja." A light seemed to stream across the old man's expressive features, and he asked, leaning forward to catch my words, whence I had come; "Hvarifrån kommer Ni?" "Jag kommer från England," I answered. I did so, and taking my hand in his, he clapsed it firmer than I imagined he could, and looked into my face. "You are not French?" he observed inquiringly. "I am not."
In it lies the history of many, clear and human to us: "Jag djerfues for ingen utan for dig allena bekänna, att jag formår ilia ånda mit Ave Maria eller läsa mit Paternoster, utan du kommer mig ichågen. Ja i sjelfa messen kommer mig fore dit täckleliga Ansigte och vart kårliga omgange. Jag tycker jag kan icke skifta mig for n genann an Menniska, jungfru Maria, St.
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