MARY DOUL.
with extreme contempt. — On you, God help you!... In a short while you’ll have a head on you as bald as an old turnip you’d see rolling round in the muck. You need never talk again of your fine looks, Martin Doul, for the day of that talk’s gone for ever.
MARTIN DOUL.
That’s a hard word to be saying, for I was thinking if I’d a bit of comfort, the like of yourself, it’s not far off we’d be from the good days went before, and that’d be a wonder surely. But I’ll never rest easy, thinking you’re a gray, beautiful woman, and myself a pitiful show.
MARY DOUL.
I can’t help your looks, Martin Doul. It wasn’t myself made you with your rat’s eyes, and your big ears, and your griseldy chin.
MARTIN DOUL.
rubs his chin ruefully, then beams with delight. — There’s one thing you’ve forgot, if you’re a cute thinking woman itself.
MARY DOUL.
Your slouching feet, is it? Or your hooky neck, or your two knees is black with knocking one on the other?
MARTIN DOUL.
with delighted scorn. — There’s talking for a cute woman. There’s talking, surely!
MARY DOUL.
puzzled at joy of his voice. — If you’d anything but lies to say you’d be talking to yourself.
MARTIN DOUL.
bursting with excitement. — I’ve this to say, Mary Doul. I’ll be letting my beard grow in a short while, a beautiful, long, white, silken, streamy beard, you wouldn’t see the like of in the eastern world.... Ah, a white beard’s a grand thing on an old man, a grand thing for making the quality stop and be stretching out their hands with good silver or gold, and a beard’s a thing you’ll never have, so you may be holding your tongue.
MARY DOUL.
laughing cheerfully. — Well, we’re a great pair, surely, and it’s great times we’ll have yet, maybe, and great talking before we die.
MARTIN DOUL.
Great times from this day, with the help of the Almighty God, for a priest itself would believe the lies of an old man would have a fine white beard growing on his chin.