MRS O'FLAHERTY. Is it take me into a strange land among heathens
and pagans and savages, and me not knowing a word of their
language nor them of mine?

O'FLAHERTY. A good job they don't: maybe they'll think you're
talking sense.

MRS O'FLAHERTY. Ask me to die out of Ireland, is it? and the
angels not to find me when they come for me!

O'FLAHERTY. And would you ask me to live in Ireland where I've
been imposed on and kept in ignorance, and to die where the divil
himself wouldn't take me as a gift, let alone the blessed angels?
You can come or stay. You can take your old way or take my young
way. But stick in this place I will not among a lot of
good-for-nothing divils that'll not do a hand's turn but watch
the grass growing and build up the stone wall where the cow
walked through it. And Sir Horace Plunkett breaking his heart all
the time telling them how they might put the land into decent
tillage like the French and Belgians.

SIR PEARCE. Yes, he's quite right, you know, Mrs O'Flaherty:
quite right there.

MRS O'FLAHERTY. Well, sir, please God the war will last a long
time yet; and maybe I'll die before it's over and the separation
allowance stops.

O'FLAHERTY. That's all you care about. It's nothing but milch
cows we men are for the women, with their separation allowances,