You cadger-quean!
You’ve set them on. I’ll crack you over the cruntle—
You rummel-dusty ... You muckhut ... You windyhash!
I’ll slit your weazen for you: I’ll break your jaw—
I’ll stop your gob, if I’ve to do you in!
You’ll not sleep under Winter’s Stob to-night.
Bell (regarding him, unmoved):
As well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb?
Jim (stopping short):
Hanged?
Bell:
To be hanged by the neck till you are dead.
That bleaches you? But you’ll look whiter yet,
When you lie cold and stiffening, my pretty bleater.
Jim (shrinking back):
You witch ... You witch! You’ve got the evil eye.
Don’t look at me like that ... Come, let me go!
Bell: