“You're the color of death,” she replied putting her fingers upon his cheek; “—an, my God! is it paspiration I feel such a night as this? I declare to goodness it is. Give me the white pocket-handkerchy that you say Peggy Murray gave you. Where is it?” she proceeded, taking it out of his pocket. “Ah, ay, I have it; stoop a little; take care of your hat; here now,” and while speaking she wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead. “Is this the one she made you a present of, an' put the letthers on?”
“It is,” he replied, “the very same—but she didn't make me a present of it, she only hemmed it for me.”
“That's a lie of you,” she replied, fiercely; “she bought it for you out of her own pocket. I know that much. She tould Kate Duffy so herself, and boasted of it: but wait.”
“Well,” replied Hanlon, anxious to keep down the gust of jealousy which he saw rising, “and if she did, how could I prevent her?”
“What letthers did she put on it?”
“P. and an M.,” he replied, “the two first letthers of my name.”
“That's another lie,” she exclaimed; “they're not the two first letthers of your name, but of her own; there's no M in Hanlon. At any rate, unless you give the same handkerchy to me, I'll make it be a black business to her.”
“Keep it, keep it, wid all my heart,” he replied, glad to get rid of a topic which at that moment came on him so powerfully and unseasonably. “Do what you like wid it.”
“You say so willingly, now—do you?”
“To be sure I do; an' you may tell the whole world that I said so, if you like.”