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"Divil a much, barrin' what you hard yourself, I suppose, about Frank Fogarty, that went mad yesterday, for risin' the meal on the poor, an' ate the ears off himself afore anybody could see him." "Vick na hoiah, Phelim; do you tell me so?" "Why man o' Moses, is it possible you did not hear it, ma'am?" "Oh, worra, man alive, not a syllable! Ate the ears off of himself!
"The man's last name!" she repeated, wonderingly. "Yes, his last name O'Rourke." "D'ye mane it?" shrieked Margaret "d' ye mane it? Glory to God! O worra! worra!" "Well, Ezra," said Mrs. Bilking, in one of those spasms of base ingratitude to which even the most perfect women are liable, "you 've made nice work of it. You might as well have knocked her down with an axe!" "But, my dear"
You ought to be more respectful." "Arrah, then, darling, I can't; 'tain't in me. I am so fond of you oh, worra, worra! there's nothing I wouldn't do for you; but I must be as I'm made. You do look tired, and tired you will go on looking until I take you to Carrigrohane to rest you and to feed you with good milk and good fruit and good eggs and good cream. Now then, boys, lift up that trunk.
I'm locked in; come let me out!" "What in the whorld is the matter wid ye?" came from the foot of the stairs. "I'm locked in and can't get out; come and open the door!" "Och, worra! Don't be callin' to me not to open the door; didn't Oi tell ye Oi wouldn't come near ye, and Oi won't.
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