"Accuse," said Anna, raising her gentle voice. "Why, acushla, nobody needs t' accuse th' poor; th' guilty need no accuser. We're convicted by bein' poor, by bein' born poor an' dying poor, aren't we now?"
"With the Lord there is neither rich nor poor, Anna."
"Aye, an' that's no news to me, but with good folks like you it's different."
"No, indeed, I assure you I think that exactly."
"Well, now, if it makes no diff'rence, dear, why do ye come down Pogue's entry like a bailiff or a process-sarver?"
"I didn't, I just hinted—"
"Aye, ye hinted an' a wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. Now tell me truly an' cross yer heart—wud ye go to Ballycraigie doore an' talk t' wee Willie Chaine as ye talked t' my bhoy jist now?"
"No—"
"No, 'deed ye wudn't for th' wudn't let ye, but because we've no choice ye come down here like a petty sessions-magistrate an' make my bhoy feel like a thief because he goes like a crow an' picks a wild cherry or a sloe that wud rot on the tree. D'ye know Luke thirteen an' nineteen?"
The lady opened her Bible, but before she found the passage Anna was reading from her old yellow backless Bible about the birds that lodged in the branches of the trees.