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Updated: May 27, 2025
Yes, and jealousy and envy sometimes, too, or you wouldn't be women like the rest of us, ma'am. . . . As for Mary O'Neill, she has something better to do too, I'm thinking. . . . After doing wrong, is she? Maybe she is, the boght millish, maybe we all are, ma'am, and have need of God's mercy and forgiveness. But I never heard that praying is the only kind of penance He asks of us, ma'am.
God gave her the boght villish, and is she to run away from it? It's a fine blessing would be on her for that, isn't it? . . . Father Dan, I'm surprised at you such a terrible, cruel, shocking, unnatural thing as you're thinking.
"What art thou saying, boght millish?" my mother had asked, and after a moment in which she seemed to listen in rapture, my darling had answered: "Hush! I am speaking to mamma telling her I am leaving Isabel with Christian Ann. And she is saying she is very glad." We walked round to the front of the house until we came close under the window of "Mary O'Neill's little room," which was wide open.
I was sitting with both hands over my face, asking myself these questions and struggling with a rising tempest of tears, when I heard baby crying in the room below, and Christian Ann hushing and comforting her. "What's doing on the boght, I wonder?" A few minutes later they came upstairs, Isabel on her grandmother's arm, in her nightdress, ready for bed.
And then turning to his wife he said: "No need to stay up with her to-night, Christian Ann." "But won't the boght millish be afraid to be left alone?" she asked. I said I shouldn't, and she kissed me and told me to knock at the wall if I wanted anything. And then, with her husband's arm about her waist, the good soul left me to myself.
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