"Oh, God, uman, don't torture me," he cried, tossing in misery and pain.
"Don't torture yo', ni, Oi mus' love yo'—is dah wha' yo' wan' me fuh do?"
"Oh, God, lemme 'lone," he cried, raving like a bull, "lemme bones rest in peace, ni?"
"Yo' scamp yo'! Yo' heart ort to prick yo' till yo' las' dyin' day fuh all yo' do to me an' my po' chirrun—"
"Oh, how many times I gwine heah de same old story?"
"Old? It will never be old! As long as I've got breath in my body—as long as I is got my boy child to shield from de worle—from de filth and disease of this rotten, depraved place—as long as I got my fo' gal chirrun in B'bados in somebody else han'—um can't be a old story!"
"Giv' me de t'ing, no," he cried, tired and exhausted, "if yo' gwine giv' me, an' le' me head res' in peace. Yo' don't know how bad it is hurtin' me now."
The day he was ready to go back to the shop, she said to him, "Tek heed, Lucian, yo' heah, yo' bes' tek heed, an' men' yo' ways—"
"O Jesus! jess because yo' been tendin' to me when I wuz sick, yo' tink yo' gwine tell me wha' to do, ni, but yo' lie, uman, yo' lie!" and he sped downstairs, swanking, one eye red and flashing.