step for her was a little one, thin, to the shortcomings and misfortunes of his blood relaytions, which she follyed back to the blaggardisms of his fourth cousin, Phelim McFadden.
Even in his misery poor Darby couldn’t but marvel at her wondherful memory.
By the time she began talking of her own family, and especially about her Aunt Honoria O’Shaughnessy, who had once shook hands with a Bishop, and who in the rebellion of ’98 had trun a brick at a Lord Liftenant, whin he was riding by, Darby was as wilted and as forlorn-looking as a roosther caught out in the winther rain.
He lost more pride in those few minutes than it had taken months to gather an’ hoard. It kept falling in great drops from his forehead.
Just as Bridget was lading up to what Father Cassidy calls a pur-roar-ration—that being the part of your wife’s discoorse whin, after telling you all she’s done for you, and all she’s stood from your relaytions, she breaks down and cries, and so smothers you entirely—just as she was coming to that, I say, Darby scrooged his caubeen down on his head, stuck his fingers in his two ears, and, making one grand rush
