would get small mercies, and when it's dead he is they'd put him in a narrow grave, with cheap sacking wrapping him round, and pour down quicklime on his head, the way you'd see a woman pouring any frishfrash from a cup.
CHRISTY, very miserably.
Oh, God help me! Are you thinking I'm safe? You were saying at the fall of night I was shut of jeopardy and I here with yourselves.
PEGEEN, severely.
You'll be shut of jeopardy no place if you go talking with a pack of wild girls the like of them do be walking abroad with the peelers, talking whispers at the fall of night.
CHRISTY, with terror.
And you're thinking they'd tell?
PEGEEN, with mock sympathy.
Who knows, God help you?
CHRISTY, loudly.
What joy would they have to bring hanging to the likes of me?
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