We shall live like hermits worried by a demon.

Her brogue! Do you remember it?
It is not simply Irish.

It's Irish steeped in brine.

It's pickled Irish!" She feigned the bursting into tears of real vexation.
"You speak," said Cornelia contemptuously, "as if we had very humbly bowed our heads to the infection." "Papa making terms with us!" murmured Arabella.
"Pray, repeat his words." Adela tossed her curls.

"I will, as well as I can.