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 face a foxy divil with a pitchpike on the flags of hell.

It's the truth they're saying, and if I'd that lad in the house, I wouldn't be fearing the looséd kharki cut-throats, or the walking dead.

Well, glory be to God!

Would you think well to stop here and be pot-boy, mister honey, if we gave you good wages, and didn't destroy you with the weight of work.

That'd be a queer kind to bring into a decent, quiet household with the like of Pegeen Mike.

Will you whisht? Who's speaking to you?

A bloody-handed murderer the like of