But ’er’s old, mother, ’er’s twenty year
Older nor him—
—Ay, an’ yaller as a crowflower, an’ yet i’ the dark
Er’d do for Tim.
Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?
It’s somebody’s lies.
—Ax him thy-sèn wench—a widder’s lodger;
It’s no surprise.
II
A widow of forty-five