scorn. "So!"

"Mrs. O'Connor--"

"So! Ye've come back in time for the buryin'! Faith, an' it's a foine
toime for the showin'-up of the chief mourner! Faith now it is!"

"Mrs. O'Connor--"

"Ain't ye ashamed? Ain't ye ashamed before the Lord to face your Maker?"

"Please--please--Mrs. O'Connor--what--what--"

"The pasty-faced lyin' ways of ye! I can see now how ye look what ye
are! I'd have believed it as soon of my own. It's the still water that
run deep in ye, is the way your girl friend put it. The hussy under that
white complexion of yours! Your sainted mither! Oh, ain't ye ashamed in
the name of the Lord to face your Maker?"

"O God--please what--"

"Your sainted mither! Niver, after that letter from ye the next night
after her scourin' the city, a whimper more out of her--"

"I wrote--I wrote--they gimme a stamp--I wrote--how--Where is she?"

"A cousin had called ye sudden-like for sickness was how she put it.
Faith and me niver once a-smellin' the mice, the way she lay there,
waitin', waitin' day after day, doubled up in the joints and waitin' for
thim ten days to pass--"