It was a raw day, and she came in shivering with the cold.

It was pathetic to see how she positively gloated with extended palms over the bright warm, fire in the drawing-room, and clutched at the cup of hot tea which my kind hostess instantly ordered in for her.
This was the woman of whom Mr.Redmond wrote to Mr.Parnell that she was "an active strong dame of about fifty." When Mr.Balfour, in Parliament, described her truly as a "decrepit old woman of eighty," Mr.Redmond contradicted him, and accused her of being "the worse for liquor" in a public court.
"How old is your mother ?" I asked her son.
"I am not rightly sure, sir," he replied, "but she is more than eighty." "The man himself is about fifty," said the sergeant; "he volunteered to go to the Crimean War, and that was more than thirty years ago!" "I did indeed, sir," broke in the man, "and it was from Cork I went.

And I'd be a corpse now if it wasn't for the mercy of God and the protection.

God bless the police, sir, that protected my old mother, sir, and me.

That Mr.Redmond, sir, they read me what he said, and sure he should be ashamed of his shadow, to get up there in Parliament, and tell those lies, sir, about my old mother!" I questioned Connell as to his relations with Carroll, the man who brought him before the League.
He was a labourer holding a bit of ground under Carroll.