cent in a place...

PEGEEN. Whisht I'm saying.

CHRISTY -- [looks at her face for a moment with great misgivings, then
as a last effort, takes up a loy, and goes towards her, with feigned
assurance]. -- It was with a loy the like of that I killed my father.

PEGEEN -- [still sharply.] -- You've told me that story six times since
the dawn of day.

CHRISTY -- [reproachfully.] It's a queer thing you wouldn't care to be
hearing it and them girls after walking four miles to be listening to me
now.

PEGEEN -- [turning round astonished.] -- Four miles.

CHRISTY -- [apologetically.] Didn't himself say there were only four
bona fides living in the place?

PEGEEN. It's bona fides by the road they are, but that lot came over the
river lepping the stones. It's not three perches when you go like that,
and I was down this morning looking on the papers the post-boy does have
in his bag. (With meaning and emphasis.) For there was great news this
day, Christopher Mahon. [She goes into room left.]

CHRISTY -- [suspiciously.] Is it news of my murder?

PEGEEN -- [inside.] Murder, indeed.

CHRISTY -- [loudly.] A murdered da?

PEGEEN [coming in again and crossing right.] -- There was not, but a
story filled half a page of the hanging of a man. Ah, that should be a
fearful end, young fellow, and it worst of all for a man who destroyed
his da, for the like of him would get small mercies, and when it's dead
he is, they'd put him in a narrow grave, with cheap sacking wrapping him
round, and pour down quicklime on his head, the way you'd see a woman
pouring any frish-frash from a cup.

CHRISTY -- [very miserably.] -- Oh, God help me. Are you thinking I'm
safe? You were saying at the fall of night, I was shut of jeopardy and I
here with yourselves.

PEGEEN -- [severely.] You'll be shut of jeopardy no place if you go
talking with a pack of wild girls the like of them do be walking abroad
with the peelers, talking whispers at the fall of night.

CHRISTY -- [with terror.] -- And you're thinking they'd tell?

PEGEEN -- [with mock sympathy.] -- Who knows, God help you.

CHRISTY -- [loudly.] What joy would they have to bring hanging to the
likes of me?

PEGEEN. It's queer joys they have, and who knows the thing they'd do,
if it'd make the green stones cry itself to think of you swaying and
swiggling at the butt of a rope, and you with a fine, stout neck, God
bless you! the way you'd be a half an hour, in great anguish, getting
your