"Shure ye don't. Ye didn't expect aanything an' ye got jist what ye expected. Ah, wuman, God isn't a printed book t' be carried aroun' b' a man in fine clothes, nor a gold cross t' be danglin' at the watch chain ov a priest."
"What is he, Anna, yer wiser nor me; tell a poor craither in throuble, do!"
"If ye'll lie very quiet, 'Liza—jist cross yer hands and listen—if ye do, I'll thry!"
"Aye, bless ye, I'll blirt no more; go on!"
"Wee Henry is over there in his shroud, isn't he?"
"Aye, God rest his soul."
"He'll rest Henry's, 'Liza, but He'll haave the divil's own job wi' yours if ye don't help 'im."
"Och, aye, thin I'll be at pace."
"As I was sayin', Henry's body is jist as it was yesterday, han's, legs, heart an' head, aren't they?"
"Aye, 'cept cold an' stiff."