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Updated: June 18, 2025
Then he observed "I seen a couple of boys from home in it." "Whethen now, to think of that," said Mrs. Joyce with mournful interest, "which of them was it?" "The one of them was Terence Kilfoyle," said Andy. Mrs. Joyce's interest flagged, for young Kilfoyle was merely a good-looking lad with the name of being rather wild.
To possess such wealth as this, and think seriously of withholding a share from anybody who urges the incontestable claim of wanting it, is a mood altogether foreign to Lisconnel, where the responsibilities of property are, no doubt, very imperfectly understood. Accordingly Mrs. Kilfoyle said to the tattered tramp: "Ah, thin, step inside and have a couple of hot pitaties."
Liker he'd ate all he could swally in the last place he got the chance of layin' his hands on anythin'." "Och, woman alive, but it's the fool you were to let him out of your sight," said Ody Rafferty's aunt. "If it had been me, I'd niver ha' took me eyes off him, for the look of him on'y goin' by made me flesh creep upon me bones." "'Deed was I," said Mrs. Kilfoyle, sorrowfully, "a fine fool.
Upon this point there might be differences of opinion. Terence Kilfoyle, for instance, who dropped in to escape from a snow-shower in the course of that morning, would not, evidently, have taken such a view.
Kilfoyle, "the poor woman maybe was kep' at home some way, and she wid ivery intintion to be comin'. I declare, now, you'd whiles think things knew what you was manin' in your mind, and riz themselves up agin it a' purpose to prevint you, they happen that conthráry." As Mrs.
Moreover, the conversation itself would be a rael fine thing to have the hearing of. Terence Kilfoyle, for instance, said that it would be as good as a Play, which, as he had never seen one, was to entertain unbounded expectations.
So the widow had ruefully put her teapot to sit on the hob until himself came in for, properly speaking, she was at this time not yet a widow and had stepped down her tussocky slope with her double disappointment to Mrs. Kilfoyle. Mrs. Kilfoyle was knitting at her door and not looking out over the bog, where the flushed light of the sunset drowsed on the black sod in an almost tangible fire-film.
Kilfoyle, who had in her mind that vivid picture of her precious cloak receding from her along the wet road, recklessly wisped up in the grasp of as thankless a thievin' black-hearted slieveen as ever stepped, and not yet, perhaps, utterly out of reach, though every fleeting instant carried it nearer to that hopeless point. However, she and her neighbours stood the test unshaken. Mrs.
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