human
Mussy on us! cried the old woman, flinging her broom to the ground as the man passed out of sight.
gpt
Mussy me, wot's he done to you, my pretty? she cried, rushing to the girl's side and catching her to her great bosom.
human
There, there, don't 'e cry, don't 'e to cry for a scallawag like that, she said, as the girl buried her face on her shoulder and sobbed as though her heart would break.
gpt
There, there, she went on, patting the girl's shoulder,
human
It's my own fault, the girl said tearfully.
gpt
I ought never to have spoken to him at all. I----
human
Wot did I tell you? she cried, with a power of self-righteousness.
gpt
Wot did I tell you? You ain't got no right to git a hob-a-nobbin' with sech scum. They're all scallawags, every one of 'em. Men!--say, these yer hills is the muck-hole o' creation, an' the men is the muck. I orter know. Didn't I marry George D. Ransford, an' didn't I raise twins by him, as you might say, an' didn't I learn thereby, an' therewith, as the sayin' is, that wi' muck around there's jest one way o' cleanin' it up an' that's with a broom! Come right into the house, pretty. You're needin' hot milk to soothe your nerves, my pore, pore! Come right in. Guess I'm a match fer any male muck around these hills. Mussy on us, what's that!