IF IT is all the same to You, I don’t want to do this anymore. Can’t You get some other fat Irish cow to solve mysteries from the past? I don’t want to be fey. I don’t want to be a detective. I want to be a good wife and mother and sing songs occasionally.
And beat poor dear Dermot at golf.
Didn’t I know as soon as we got on the train to ride back to Landsdowne Road and Jury’s that I would make love with me poor husband as soon as we got into our room? Even if there’re no skyrockets, I says to meself it’s nice and I need to be loved.
So there were no skyrockets, but poor Dermot was pleased with me and himself thinking that it helped me to get over that horror in Booterstown. I don’t have to tell it takes days for one of those things to wear off. Sure, I’m good at faking that, too.
Good at faking everything.
What are we supposed to do now?
Why don’t we make a deal? Why don’t I solve whatever mystery You want me to solve and You make me a good wife and a good mother?
Isn’t that fair?
I know that You don’t make deals, but, sure, couldn’t You do it just this once?
No comment, huh?
I didn’t think so.
You insist that You love me?
Don’t I know that?