to his life, and following after me like an old weasel tracing a rat, and coming in here laying desolation between my own self and the fine women of Ireland, and he a kind of carcase that you'd fling upon the sea. . . .
WIDOW QUIN, more soberly.
There's talking for a man's one only son.
CHRISTY, breaking out.
His one son, is it? May I meet him with one tooth and it aching, and one eye to be seeing seven and seventy divils in the twists of the road, and one old timber leg on him to limp into the scalding grave. (Looking out.) There he is now crossing the strands, and that the Lord God would send a high wave to wash him from the world.
WIDOW QUIN, scandalised.
Have you no shame? (Putting her hand on his shoulder and turning him round.) What ails you? Near crying, is it?
CHRISTY, in despair and grief.
Amn't I after seeing the love-light of the star of knowledge shining from her brow, and hearing words would put you thinking on the holy
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