and you gasping with the rage you had racing the hill beyond to look on his
face.

WIDOW QUIN -- [laughing derisively.] -- Me, is it? Well, Father Reilly has
cuteness to divide you now. (She pulls Christy up.) There's great temptation
in a man did slay his da, and we'd best be going, young fellow; so rise up and
come with me.

PEGEEN -- [seizing his arm.] -- He'll not stir. He's pot-boy in this place,
and I'll not have him stolen off and kidnabbed while himself's abroad.

WIDOW QUIN. It'd be a crazy pot-boy'd lodge him in the shebeen where he works
by day, so you'd have a right to come on, young fellow, till you see my little
houseen, a perch off on the rising hill.

PEGEEN. Wait till morning, Christy Mahon. Wait till you lay eyes on her
leaky thatch is growing more pasture for her buck goat than her square of
fields, and she without a tramp itself to keep in order her place at all.

WIDOW QUIN. When you see me contriving in my little gardens, Christy Mahon,
you'll swear the Lord God formed me to be living lone, and that there isn't my
match in Mayo for thatching, or mowing, or shearing a sheep.

PEGEEN -- [with noisy scorn.] -- It's true the Lord God formed you to contrive
indeed. Doesn't the world know you reared a black lamb at your own breast, so
that the Lord Bishop of Connaught felt the elements of a Christian, and he
eating it after in a kidney stew? Doesn't the world know you've been seen
shaving the foxy skipper from France for a threepenny bit and a sop of grass
tobacco would wring the liver from a mountain goat you'd meet leaping the
hills?