"Ceangail mi, dèan do chuid fhèin mi.1 Feuch, a Mhaighstir.2"
The man took a sip of his drink and calmly held the cup in one hand. Before him, she knelt, broken, battered, miserable, muttering over and over, "Ceangail mi, dèan do chuid fhèin mi. Feuch, a Mhaighstir."
Could this be a trap? He wondered as he looked around the tavern. Some of the women were looking at the female kneeling at his feet as if she were diseased, while others looked slightly jealous. No, it's not a trap. Dismissing the people around him, he glanced down at the woman. Her very posture showed that she was distressed, and only one thing could restore her well-being. "What is it you want, woman?"
She looked up at him through her tears and wild hair. "Ceangail mi. Feuch a Mhaighstir. I can't do it anymore." Her voice was broken, and he could tell that she was literally on the knife's edge. He continued to examine her, noticing that her dress was torn, but had once been something a b…
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