Cathleen opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a stocking. They look at them eagerly.
CATHLEEN.
In a low voice.—The Lord spare us, Nora! isn’t it a queer hard thing to say if it’s his they are surely?
NORA.
I’ll get his shirt off the hook the way we can put the one flannel on the other {{quote|{{block right|she looks through some clothes hanging in the corner.] It’s not with them, Cathleen, and where will it be?
CATHLEEN.
I’m thinking Bartley put it on him in the morning, for his own shirt was heavy with the salt in it {{quote|{{block right|pointing to the corner]. There’s a bit of a sleeve was of the same stuff. Give me that and it will do.
Nora brings it to her and they compare the flannel.
CATHLEEN.
It’s the same stuff, Nora; but if it is itself aren’t there great rolls of it in the shops of Galway, and isn’t it many another man may have a shirt of it as well as Michael himself?