MARTIN DOUL. Passing the gap.

MARY DOUL -- [raising her head.] -- The length of that! Well,
the sun's getting warm this day if it's late autumn itself.

MARTIN DOUL -- [putting out his hands in sun.] -- What way
wouldn't it be warm and it getting high up in the south? You
were that length plaiting your yellow hair you have the morning
lost on us, and the people are after passing to the fair of
Clash.

MARY DOUL. It isn't going to the fair, the time they do be
driving their cattle and they with a litter of pigs maybe
squealing in their carts, they'd give us a thing at all. (She
sits down.) It's well you know that, but you must be talking.

MARTIN DOUL -- [sitting down beside her and beginning to shred
rushes she gives him.] -- If I didn't talk I'd be destroyed in a
short while listening to the clack you do be making, for you've a
queer cracked voice, the Lord have mercy on you, if it's fine to
look on you are itself.

MARY DOUL. Who wouldn't have a cracked voice sitting out all the
year in the rain falling? It's a bad life for the voice, Martin
Doul, though I've heard tell there isn't anything like the wet
south wind does be blowing upon us for keeping a white beautiful
skin -- the like of my skin -- on your neck and on your brows,
and there isn't anything at all like a fine skin for putting
splendour on a woman.