Brid. Let the girl go.
Ber. Niver; she can go around to church, and see them bury Pat McGinness, if she wants relaxation. Who was she goin’ to the ball wid?
Brid. Denny Burns.
Ber. A young thafe that gets fifty cints a week playin’ policy. Mary Ann, if I catch that hypothecation around this chateau, I’ll break his neek, do you savvy?
Mary. Then I can’t go wid him?
Ber. No, me leddy. Stay at home and read yez hymn-book, so that yez will be able to sing, “Hould me Foat,” when the time comes for the torch-light picnics. Bridget, take off this overdress of mine, and bring me me spring overcoat.
Brid. Shure, we’re using your spring coat for a tablecloth.
Ber. I suppose so. And I’ve been carryin’ the tablecloth around all day for a chest-protector. But I must away.
Brid. Where are yez goin’?