blood.

CHRISTY -- [doubtfully.] It should, maybe.

WIDOW QUIN. It's more than "maybe" I'm saying, and it'd soften my heart
to see you sitting so simple with your cup and cake, and you fitter to
be saying your catechism than slaying your da.

PEGEEN -- [at counter, washing glasses.] -- There's talking when any'd
see he's fit to be holding his head high with the wonders of the world.
Walk on from this, for I'll not have him tormented and he destroyed
travelling since Tuesday was a week.

WIDOW QUIN -- [peaceably.] We'll be walking surely when his supper's
done, and you'll find we're great company, young fellow, when it's of
the like of you and me you'd hear the penny poets singing in an August
Fair.

CHRISTY -- [innocently.] Did you kill your father?

PEGEEN -- [contemptuously.] She did not. She hit himself with a worn
pick, and the rusted poison did corrode his blood the way he never
overed it, and died after. That was a sneaky kind of murder did win
small glory with the boys itself. [She crosses to Christy's left.]

WIDOW QUIN -- [with good-humour.] -- If it didn't, maybe all knows a
widow woman has buried her children and destroyed her man is a
wiser comrade for a young lad than a girl, the like of you, who'd go
helter-skeltering after any man would let you a wink upon the road.

PEGEEN -- [breaking out into wild rage.] -- And you'll say that, Widow
Quin, 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