Ho asked her for cigarettes.

She rose, and laid her book and the candle on the counter.
It was one of O'Growney's Irish primers, dirty and pencilled.

Hyacinth's heart warmed to her at once.

Was she not trying to learn the dear Irish which the barefooted girls far away at home shouted to each other as they dragged the seaweed up from the shore?
Then from the far end of the shop he heard a man's voice speaking Irish.

It was not the soft liquid tongue of the Connaught peasants, but a language more regular and formal.