"June—le' mah see," snuffled Mrs. Bright, diving in her hand bag, "yes—it is June. June will be eight months sense Oi las' hear from 'e."
"An' yo' mean fo' tell muh," cried Mr. Oxley, his incredible eyes big and white, "dat dah neygah man ent ha' de graciousness in 'e 'art fuh sen' yo' a ha'penny fuh de chirrun awl dis time?"
"No, Charlie."
"Gord! Dah man muss be got de heart uv a brute!"
"He must be fuhget we, Charlie."
"Wuh, moy Gord, yo' don' even fuhget ah doig yo' fling a bone to, much mo' a big fambaly like yo' got dey. Fuhget yo'?"
"He must be," wept Mrs. Bright, swallowing hard, but Gerald was too impassioned himself to rise or let the girls share his sorrow.
"But wha' yo' gwine do, ni, Sarah? Wha' yuh gwine do? Yo' an' all dese chirrun yo' get dey, ni?"
"Oi ent stop fuh t'ink, Charlie, to tell yo' de troot. But de Lord will provide Charlie, Oi is get my truss in Him."
"But wha' kin de Lord do fo' yo' now yo' doan heah fum dat woofless vargybin?"