Girl, we haven't talked in ages.
Sure, I haven't been out of the cottage since the whole incident with the hangin'. Every time I tink of it, I shutter at the taught of it. Musha, how I begged and pleated -- but, sure, all for nought.
Saints in heaven, I've heard of it, but not from ye're own mouth.
Well, there was the poor, old, blind Venetian layin' there on the side -- spent, y'know, sad lookin', waitin' on a final disposition, like. And that bronze-like Roman -- shades an' all -- bound up and being led up the steps. An' I'm tinkin', sure, 'tis curtains for this fella!
Faith!
So, I'm wantin' nothin' more than to holdback the whole affair. I says, ''Tis all wrong. 'Tis crooked as a blackthorn stick." Well, at that, the hangman himself casts a black eye back on meself. Then, he turns an' takes a length of rope, ties it down, 'trows th'other end of it over the traverse, and makes a knot of it.
An', there's the awful panel on either side - all high and mighty, with their ascots and their scarves and their 'blousons' and their fancy trim , y'know -- full o' swag and jalousie, they were, the lot of 'em. Sure, I had mind to a take hard finial to their jabots and scallop their headings.
Save us! But, sure, what was the poor Roman up for?
Nothin' but a bit of pinched cloth. 'Twas nothin' but a railroadin'.
God spare us!
An' here am I lookin' on -- the sheer terror of it, the hooks an' all -- an' so I says again, "Sure, 'tis all wrong. 'Tis crooked and all wrong. Stop it now, or ye'll feel the cuff of the Bishop's sleeve!"
Faith! What then?
Well, then, Himself marches down the steps and hands the whole thing to meself an' says, "Here, you hang the damned 'ting!"
An' I says, "Sure, that's the last time I'll ask you to put up any bit of drapery around here.'
Well, you were right with that. Still, he's a fine figure of man.
Well... he is, at that.
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