they call it, lepping around with that wound in the splendour of the sun. It was a bad blow, surely, and you should have vexed him fearful to make him strike that gash in his da.
MAHON.
Is it me?
WIDOW QUIN, amusing herself.
Aye. And isn't it a great shame when the old and hardened do torment the young.
MAHON, raging.
Torment him is it? And I after holding out with the patience of a martyred saint till there's nothing but destruction on, and I'm driven out in my old age with none to aid me.
WIDOW QUIN, greatly amused.
It's a sacred wonder the way that wickedness will spoil a man.
MAHON.
My wickedness, is it? Amn't I after saying it is himself has me destroyed, and he a liar on walls, a talker of folly, a man you'd see stretched the half of the day in the brown ferns with his belly to the sun.
75
