Isn't it long the nights are now, Shawn Keogh, to be leaving a poor girl with
her own self counting the hours to the dawn of day?

SHAWN -- [with awkward humour.] -- If it is, when we're wedded in a short
while you'll have no call to complain, for I've little will to be walking off
to wakes or weddings in the darkness of the night.

PEGEEN -- [with rather scornful good humour.] -- You're making mighty certain,
Shaneen, that I'll wed you now.

SHAWN. Aren't we after making a good bargain, the way we're only waiting
these days on Father Reilly's dispensation from the bishops, or the Court of
Rome.

PEGEEN -- [looking at him teasingly, washing up at dresser.] -- It's a wonder,
Shaneen, the Holy Father'd be taking notice of the likes of you; for if I was
him I wouldn't bother with this place where you'll meet none but Red Linahan,
has a squint in his eye, and Patcheen is lame in his heel, or the mad
Mulrannies were driven from California and they lost in their wits. 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?