'Do what you like, only get rid of 'em somehow.'

'Thank you.'

'Oh, you needn't thank me! I'd as soon send every one of 'em to jail as
not; but I can't stand your puffing and sighing just as if they were all
your own flesh and blood.'

'We're all the same flesh and blood, my dear.'

'I'd be uncommon sorry to think so. I've nothing but Welsh flesh and
blood about me, and should be loath to have any other, Irish, Scotch, or
English either.'

Mrs Prothero disappeared.

'That 'ooman 'ould wheedle the stone out of a mill,' continued the
farmer, rubbing his eyes, and deliberately taking off his night-cap,
'and yet she don't ever seem to have her own way, and is as meek as
Moses. She has wheedled me out of my Sunday nap, so I suppose I may as
well get up. Hang the Irish! There is no getting rid of 'em. She's given
'em a night's lodging, and a supper for so many years, that they come
and ask as if it was their due. But I'll put a stop to it, yet, in spite
of her, or my name isn't David Prothero.'

When Mr Prothero came forth from his dormitory, he was in his very best
Sunday attire. As he walked across the farm-yard in search of his wife,
there was an air about him that seemed to say, 'I am monarch of all I
survey.' Indeed, few monarchs are as independent, and proud of their
independence, as David Prothero of Glanyravon.