“You be not of this country. You come from afar.”
“Oh, indeed to goodness, he is of this country, Missis Felena,” Mother
chirped up like a little bird. “He came back from being ’prentice after
his uncle was drownded. It was his uncle wove the mourning when my poor
maister died, falling down in a fit and dying in his boots on the
sabbath the bees did play.”
“And, now he’s dead and your A’ntie’s dead, you live by your lonesome, I
suppose,” says Jancis.
“Well, I do and I don’t.”
“Dear to goodness, Mister, have you got a kept ’oman?”
This was Felena.
“Your thoughts be all beaded on one string,” says Kester.