Bartley: Is it your wits you have lost or is it I myself that have lost my wits?
Mrs. Fallon: And it’s hard I earned you, slaving, slaving—and you grumbling, and sighing, and coughing, and discontented, and the priest wore out anointing you, with all the times you threatened to die!
Bartley: Let you be quiet till I tell you!
Mrs. Fallon: You to bring such a disgrace into the parish. A thing that was never heard of before!
Bartley: Will you shut your mouth and hear me speaking?
Mrs. Fallon: And if it was for any sort of a fine handsome woman, but for a little fistful of a woman like Kitty Keary, that’s not four feet high hardly, and not three teeth in her head unless she got new ones! May God reward you, Bartley Fallon, for the black treachery in your heart and the wickedness in your mind, and the red blood of poor Jack Smith that is wet upon your hand!
(Voice of Jack Smith heard singing.)
The sea shall be dry,
The earth under mourning and ban!
Then loud shall he cry