Page 392

TOC

Page 391 Page 393

were faults on both sides) well, he attempted (or so they say)
ah, now, forget and forgive (don't we all?) and, sure, he was only
funning with his andrewmartins and his old age coming over
him, well, he attempted or, the Connachy, he was tempted to
attempt some hunnish familiarities, after eten a bad carmp in the
rude ocean and, hevantonoze sure, he was dead seasickabed (it was
really too bad!) her poor old divorced male, in the housepays for
the daying at the Martyr Mrs MacCawley's, where at the time
he was taying and toying, to hold the nursetendered hand, (ah,
the poor old coax!) and count the buttons and her hand and
frown on a bad crab and doying to remembore what doed they
were byorn and who made a who a snore. Ah dearo dearo
dear!
    And where do you leave Matt Emeritus? The laychief of Ab- 
botabishop? And exchullard of ffrench and gherman. Achoch!
They were all so sorgy for poorboir Matt in his saltwater hat,
with the Aran crown, or she grew that out of, too big for him, of
or Mnepos and his overalls, all falling over her in folds    sure he
hadn't the heart in her to pull them up    poor Matt, the old peri-
grime matriarch, and a queenly man, (the porple blussing upon
them!) sitting there, the sole of the settlement, below ground,
for an expiatory rite, in postulation of his cause, (who shall say?)
in her beaver bonnet, the king of the Caucuses, a family all to
himself, under geasa, Themistletocles, on his multilingual tomb-
stone, like Navellicky Kamen, and she due to kid by sweetpea
time, with her face to the wall, in view of the poorhouse, and
taking his rust in the oxsight of Iren, under all the auspices, amid
the rattle of hailstorms, kalospintheochromatokreening, with her
ivyclad hood, and gripping an old pair of curling tongs, belong-
ing to Mrs Duna O'Cannell, to blow his brains with, till the
heights of Newhigherland heard the Bristolhut, with his can of
tea and a purse of alfred cakes from Anne Lynch and two cuts of
Shackleton's brown loaf and dilisk, waiting for the end to come.
Gordon Heighland, when you think of it! The merthe dirther!
Ah ho! It was too bad entirely! All devoured by active parlour-
men, laudabiliter, of woman squelch and all on account of the