May. And the colour on me was as a rose, and my limbs was straight. ’Twas fleet like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that was then, Harry.
Harry. ’Tis a poor old bent woman as you be now, May.
May. Ah, Death have been tapping on the door of my body this long while, but, please God, I can hold me with the best of them yet, Harry, and that I can. Victuals to th’ inside of I and a bit of clothing to my bones, with summat to quiet this cough as doubles of I up. Why, there, Harry, you won’t know as ’tis me when I’ve been to home a day or two—or may be as ’twill take a week.
Harry. I count ’twill take a rare lot of victuals afore you be set up as you once was, May.
May. Look you in my eyes, Harry. They may not know me up at home by the hair, which is different to what ’twas, or by the form of me, which be got poor and nesh like. But in the eye there don’t come never no change. So look you at they, Harry, and tell I how it do appear to you.
Harry. There be darkness lying atween you and me, May.
May. Then come you close to I, Harry, and look well into they.
Harry. Them be set open wonderful wide and ’tis as though a heat comed out from they. ’Tis not anyone as might care much for to look into the eyes what you’ve got.
May. [With despondence.] Maybe then, as them’ll not know as ’tis me, Harry Moss.
Harry. I count as they’ll be hard put to, and that’s the truth.