I jest
hate the sight o' ye.' She spoke with a vehement, concentrated
hoarseness.
'Nay, but ye must listen to me. I will na be put off wi' fratchin
speeches.'
And gripping her arm, he forced her to stop.
'Loose me, ye great beast,' she broke out.
'I'll na hould ye, if ye'll jest stand quiet-like. I meant t' speak fair
t' ye, Rosa.'
They stood at a bend in the road, face to face quite close together.
Behind his burly form stretched the dimness of a grey, ghostly field.
'What is't ye hev to say to me? Hev done wi' it quick,' she said
sullenly.
'It be jest this, Rosa,' he began with dogged gravity. 'I want t' tell
ye that ef any trouble comes t'ye after I'm gone--ye know t' what I
refer--I want t' tell ye that I'm prepared t' act square by ye. I've
written out on an envelope my address in London. Luke Stock, care o'
Purcell and Co., Smithfield Market, London.'
'Ye're a bad, sinful man. I jest hate t' sight o' ye. I wish ye were
dead.'
'Ay, but I reckon what ye'd ha best thought o' that before. Ye've
changed yer whistle considerably since Tuesday. Nay, hould on,' he
added, as she struggled to push past him.
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