I never saw such an 'ooman as your mother in my life; she's never quiet a minute.

I 'ont stand it any longer; now 'tis a subscription for this, now a donation for that, then sixpence for Jack such a one, or a shilling for Sal the other, till I have neither peace nor money.

Come you, sir, go and turn that vagabond out directly, or I'll do it before your mother comes home, hark'ee, sir.' 'I can't father, really.' 'Then I will.' Off stalked the farmer in his passion, crying out in the passage, 'Shanno, come here!' A servant girl quickly answered the summons.
'Where's that Irish vagabond ?' 'In Mr Owen's room, sir.' Upstairs went the farmer, leaving Shanno grinning and saying, 'He, he, he'll do be turning her out very soon, she will, he, he.' Rowland ran upstairs after his father, calling out gently, 'Stop, father, Miss Gwynne--' but the father was in the bedroom before he heard the words, and had made the house re-echo the noise of his opening the door.
He was instantaneously checked in his career by seeing Miss Gwynne advance towards him, with her finger in the air.
'Hush, Mr Prothero,' she whispered, 'she is asleep.

Look here; gently, very gently.' She led the enraged farmer by one of his large brass buttons to the bedside, where the white-faced Gladys lay.

She looked so much like a corpse, that he started back affrighted.