“Did she indeed, rya?” replied my good old friend, with a smile of joy flashing from his eyes, the unearthly Rommany light just glinting from their gloom.
“Yes,” I said impressively, as a mother might tell an affecting story to a child. “All the money that that poor woman had, that wicked Gipsy woman took away, and utterly ruined her.”
This was the culminating point; he burst into an irrepressible laugh; he couldn’t help it—the thing had been done too well.
“But you haven’t heard all yet,” I added. “There’s more covvas to well.”
“Oh, I suppose the Rummany chi prastered avree (ran away), and got off with the swag?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Then they caught her, and sent her to starabun” (prison).
“No,” I replied.
“And what did they do?”
“THEY BURNT HER ALIVE!”