I've nothing but Welsh flesh and blood about me, and should be loath to have any other, Irish, Scotch, or English either.' Mrs Prothero disappeared.
'That 'ooman 'ould wheedle the stone out of a mill,' continued the farmer, rubbing his eyes, and deliberately taking off his night-cap, 'and yet she don't ever seem to have her own way, and is as meek as Moses.

She has wheedled me out of my Sunday nap, so I suppose I may as well get up.

Hang the Irish! There is no getting rid of 'em.

She's given 'em a night's lodging, and a supper for so many years, that they come and ask as if it was their due.

But I'll put a stop to it, yet, in spite of her, or my name isn't David Prothero.' When Mr Prothero came forth from his dormitory, he was in his very best Sunday attire.