(These words were written in 1918) The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer: may the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair and beat bad manners out of her skin for a year. That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will ever see on virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead, came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me, and threw me out of the house on the back of my head. If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day; but she with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange! May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten and may the high king of glory permit her to get the mange.
