“Oh, he was ever an' always the biggest nagar livin', ma'am. Ay, an' when he was tied up, till a blessed priest 'ud be brought to maliwgue the divil out of him, he got a scythe an' cut his own two hands off.”
“No thin, Phelim!”
“Faitha, ma'am, sure enough. I suppose, ma'am, you hard about Biddy Duignan?”
“Who is she, Phelim?”
“Why the misfortunate crathurs a daughter of her father's, ould Mick Duignan, of Tavenimore.”
“An' what about her, Phehm! What happened her?”
“Faix, ma'am, a bit of a mistake she met wid; but, anyhow, ould Harry Connolly's to stand in the chapel nine Sundays, an' to make three Stations to Lough Dergh for it. Bedad, they say it's as purty a crathur as you'd see in a day's thravellin'.”
“Harry Connolly! Why, I know Harry, but I never heard of Biddy Duiguan, or her father at all. Harry Connolly! Is it a man that's bent over his staff for the last twenty years! Hut, tut, Phelim, don't say sich a thing.”
“Why, ma'am, sure he takes wid it himself; he doesn't deny it at all, the ould sinner.”
“Oh, that I mayn't sin, Phelim, if one knows who to thrust in this world, so they don't. Why the desateful ould—hut, Phelim, I can't give into it.”