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"You've got some good ones there!" The lame man's face brightened. He had the upward look in his eyes which prolonged suffering often brings. "Yeas; they'm praaper buties; gude milkers tu." "I bet they are." "'Ope as yure leg's better, zurr." "Thank you, it's getting on." The lame man touched his own: "I know what 'tes, meself; 'tes a main worritin' thing, the knee.
"Joanna Godden's a woman, fur all her man's ways, and you can't expéct her to have präaper know wud sheep." "I wonder if she'll get shut of him after this," said Vine. "Not she! She don't see through him yet." "She'll never see through him," said Prickett solemnly. "The only kind of man a woman ever sees through is the kind she don't like to look at."
"What tune does he play?" "Dunno." "What's he like?" "'E's black. Old Jim zays 'e's all over 'air. 'E's a praaper bogle. 'E don' come only at naight." The little boy's oblique dark eyes slid round. "D'yu think 'e might want to take me away? Megan's feared of 'e." "Has she seen him?" "No. She's not afeared o' yu." "I should think not. Why should she be?" "She zays a prayer for yu."
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