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 let no one say a word about them, for she’ll be getting her death,” says he, “with crying and lamenting.”

The door which Nora half closed is blown open by a gust of wind.

Looking out anxiously.

Did you ask him would he stop Bartley going this day with the horses to the Galway fair?

“I won’t stop him,” says he, “but let you not be afraid. Herself does be saying prayers half through the night, and the Almighty God won’t leave her destitute,” says he, “with no son living.”

Is the sea bad by the white rocks, Nora?

Middling bad, God help us. There’s a great roaring in the west, and it’s worse it’ll be getting when the tide’s turned to the wind.

She goes over to the table with the bundle.

Shall I open it now?