M'

When MacConnachie let go, he put a hand to his head and muttered, “M’tired.”

On n’avait jamais réussi a défricher les origines de cette petite fille d’à peine trois ans, qui n’apportait pour tout bagage qu’un surnom, le nom de sa terre de Beaubassin et un cri : « Zé faim! »

– Heave me up that haversack, Annie. / – What’s in? / – Ye’ll see. / – M’hungry.

―Baby. / She pulls her face from where it’s buried in my neck. / ―M’tired.

“M’tired of the thing,” the man yells. “Tired of the Manor.”

“M’tired,” Nick said, and yawned again.

‘Guess I feel like sleepin’ meself,’ he said. ‘Trouble is, I’m on next watch. Guess I’ll change thet with m’tired friend there.[…]”

“That’s what he thinks,” she said finally, waving the cane at her brother. “Hopes the goddess might unscramble his egg. I told ’im she’s just as likely ta hoist up m’tired old tits, and I ain’t countin’ on that, either.”