“Tid you’ll hear me, my laty?” he asked in a tone of reflection, as if trying to recall the circumstance.
“Indeed I did. You frightened me so that I didn’t dare come in.”
“Ten she’ll pe punished enough. Put it wass no harm to curse ta wicket Cawmill.”
“It was not Glenlyon—it wasn’t a man at all; it was a woman you were in such a rage with.”
“Was it ta rascal’s wife, ten, my laty?” he asked, as if he were willing to be guided to the truth that he might satisfy her, but so much in the habit of swearing, that he could not well recollect the particular object at a given time.
“Is his wife as bad as himself then?”
“Wifes is aalways worser.”
“But what is it makes you hate him so dreadfully? Is he a bad man?”
“A fery pad man, my tear laty! He is tead more than a hundert years.”
“Then why do you hate him so?”