“Oh, would she?”
“Yes. She has her knife into most people.”
“I’ve not much money left,” said Joseline, “but whatever I have you are welcome to”; and she rose and went to a writing-table.
“But my dear, what have you done with it? The other day you said you had a hundred pounds.”
“Well, ye see, being near Christmas I sent some over to Father Daly to lay out; they’d take it kinder from him, than me.”
“Take what?”
“Well, my old friends. Mikey Mahon would be the better of an ass and car, I know, and Mrs. Curran is lost for a good pig, and Larry Duff’s cow went and died on him, so I’ve told them to buy a nice little young Kerry; and there was coals badly wanted, and I sent Peggy Curran a dress piece, and Mrs. Hogan a weather-glass and a visitors’ book, for the last one was spoiled on her, and full of impudence and poetry.”
“What have you left?” interrupted Tito impatiently.
“Here it is—twenty-five pounds”—and she held it out. “I am sorry I’m short. What will you do for the rest?”