Brigid speaking to the infant saints, and now she'll be turning again, and speaking hard words to me, like an old woman with a spavindy ass she'd have, urging on a hill.
WIDOW QUIN.
There's poetry talk for a girl you'd see itching and scratching, and she with a stale stink of poteen on her from selling in the shop.
CHRISTY, impatiently.
It's her like is fitted to be handling merchandise in the heavens above, and what'll I be doing now, I ask you, and I a kind of wonder was jilted by the heavens when a day was by.
There is a distant noise of girls' voices. Widow Quin looks from window and comes to him, hurriedly.
WIDOW QUIN.
You'll be doing like myself, I'm thinking, when I did destroy my man, for I'm above many's the day, odd times in great spirits, abroad in the sunshine, darning a stocking or stitching a shift; and odd times again looking out on the schooners, hookers, trawlers is sailing the sea, and I thinking on the gallant hairy fellows are drifting beyond, and myself long years living alone.
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