CHRISTY, going over to her, gradually raising his voice.
I've said it nowhere till this night, I'm telling you; for I've seen none the like of you the eleven long days I am walking the world, looking over a low ditch or a high ditch on my north or south, into stony, scattered fields, or scribes of bog, where you'd see young, limber girls, and fine, prancing women making laughter with the men.
PEGEEN.
If you weren't destroyed travelling, you'd have as much talk and streeleen, I'm thinking, as Owen Roe O'Sullivan or the poets of the Dingle Bay; and I've heard all times it's the poets are your like—fine, fiery fellows with great rages when their temper's roused.
CHRISTY, drawing a little nearer to her.
You've a power of rings, God bless you, and would there be any offence if I was asking are you single now?
PEGEEN.
What would I want wedding so young?
CHRISTY, with relief.
We're alike, so.
30
