Sobbing.
and ye knowed, right well ye knowed, that every string o' his fiddle was kayed to the cryin' o' your own heart.
William John Granahan.
Half sobbing.
There. There. God forgive me, my poor ould boy. I did na know. Whist. Maybe if I say a word or two:—Oh God forgive us this night our angry words, and ha'e marcy on my wayward son, O Lord, and keep him safe from harm, and deliver him not unto the adversary. Amen.
Grandfather.
Amen. Aye. Aye. Ye done well. Let no the sun go down upon your wrath.
William John Granahan.
Going to door.
It's a coorse night.