CHRISTY.
Wouldn’t any wish to be decent 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 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.