“To be sure I did; an’ a good right I had; an’ sorry I’d be to see you in want of a dhrop of nourishment.”
“I was a baste, Nancy. But if I was, this is what made a baste av me.”
And Shawn Gow fixed his eyes upon the bottle with a look in which hatred and fascination were strangely blended. He turned quickly to his wife.
“Will you give in it was a blackbird?” he asked.
“A blackbird,” she repeated, irresolutely.
“Yes, a blackbird. Will you give in it was a blackbird?”
Shawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage mood.
“Well,” said his wife, after some hesitation, “’twas a blackbird. Will that plase you?”
“An’ you’ll never say ’twas a thrish agin?”
“Never. An’ sure on’y for the speckles on the breast, I’d never say ’twas a thrish; but sure you ought to know betther than me—an’—an’—’twas a blackbird,” she exclaimed, with a desperate effort.