“Turk!” responded Hannah, “who on earth is he? I don’t think he can be very pretty with a nightcap on.”
“Ah, lave me alone,” said Peggy, “ye make me double up wid the laughter. Is it a man ye think I’m spakin’ of? Why, it’s a beauteous mountain with his head in the clouds, that’s why we call it his nightcap, an’ most days he has it on, for most days it rains, God bless it!”
“But that can’t be at all nice—rain can’t.”
“Howld yer tongue, Hannah, don’t be abusin’ me counthry to me face, or I’ll treat ye as I treated that black thing last night.”
“Oh Peggy Desmond, I admired you when you flew at her; we all did—me, and Annie Jones, and Priscilla Price, and Rufa Conway—we all did, I think, in our hearts, except those horrid Dodds.”
“Did ye truly now?”
“Indeed, indeed we did.”
“Well, that’s consolin’. I’ll do for that black thing if she ill-manners me.”
“Oh Peggy, you don’t know what she is! We’re all afraid of her—we are really.”
“Sit down here an’ tell me all about her,” said Peggy.