We're a
queer lot these times to go troubling the Holy Father on his sacred seat.
SHAWN -- [scandalized.] If we are, we're as good this place as another,
maybe, and as good these times as we were for ever.
PEGEEN -- [with scorn.] -- As good, is it? Where now will you meet the like of
Daneen Sullivan knocked the eye from a peeler, or Marcus Quin, God rest him,
got six months for maiming ewes, and he a great warrant to tell stories of
holy Ireland till he'd have the old women shedding down tears about their
feet. Where will you find the like of them, I'm saying?
SHAWN -- [timidly.] If you don't it's a good job, maybe; for (with peculiar
emphasis on the words) Father Reilly has small conceit to have that kind
walking around and talking to the girls.
PEGEEN -- [impatiently, throwing water from basin out of the door.] -- Stop
tormenting me with Father Reilly (imitating his voice) when I'm asking only
what way I'll pass these twelve hours of dark, and not take my death with the
fear. [Looking out of door.]
SHAWN -- [timidly.] Would I fetch you the widow Quin, maybe?
PEGEEN. Is it the like of that murderer? You'll not, surely.
SHAWN -- [going to her, soothingly.] -- Then I'm thinking himself will stop
along with you when he sees you taking on, for it'll be a long night-time with
great darkness, and I'm after feeling a kind of fellow above in the furzy
ditch, groaning wicked like a maddening dog, the way it's good cause you have,
maybe, to be fearing now.
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