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‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. Yet there was nothing for her to do. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. CHAPTER XVII.
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