white skin.

MARTIN DOUL -- [breaking out into a passionate cry.] -- Your
hair, and your big eyes, is it? . . . I'm telling you there
isn't a wisp on any gray mare on the ridge of the world isn't
finer than the dirty twist on your head. There isn't two eyes in
any starving sow isn't finer than the eyes you were calling blue
like the sea.

MARY DOUL -- [interrupting him.] -- It's the devil cured you this
day with your talking of sows; it's the devil cured you this day,
I'm saying, and drove you crazy with lies.

MARTIN DOUL. Isn't it yourself is after playing lies on me, ten
years, in the day and in the night; but what is that to you now
the Lord God has given eyes to me, the way I see you an old
wizendy hag, was never fit to rear a child to me itself.

MARY DOUL. I wouldn't rear a crumpled whelp the like of you.
It's many a woman is married with finer than yourself should be
praising God if she's no child, and isn't loading the earth with
things would make the heavens lonesome above, and they scaring
the larks, and the crows, and the angels passing in the sky.

MARTIN DOUL. Go on now to be seeking a lonesome place where the
earth can hide you away; go on now, I'm saying, or you'll be
having men and women with their knees bled, and they screaming to
God for a holy water would darken their sight, for there's no man
but would liefer be blind a hundred years, or a thousand itself,
than to be looking on your like.