MARTIN DOUL. _despondingly._ — It’s not a lie you’re telling, maybe, for it’s long years I’m after losing from the world, feeling love and talking love, with the old woman, and I fooled the whole while with the lies of Timmy the smith. MOLLY BYRNE. _half invitingly._ — It’s a fine way you’re wanting to pay Timmy the smith.... And it’s not his _lies_ you’re making love to this day, Martin Doul. MARTIN DOUL. It is not, Molly, and the Lord forgive us all. (_He passes behind her and comes near her left._) For I’ve heard tell there are lands beyond in Cahir Iveraghig and the Reeks of Cork with warm sun in them, and fine light in the sky. (_Bending towards her._) And light’s a grand thing for a man ever was blind, or a woman, with a fine neck, and a skin on her the like of you, the way we’d have a right to go off this day till we’d have a fine life passing abroad through them towns of the south, and we telling stories, maybe, or singing songs at the fairs. MOLLY BYRNE. _turning round half amused, and looking him over from head to foot._ — Well, isn’t it a queer thing when your own wife’s after leaving you because you’re a pitiful show, you’d talk the like of that to me? MARTIN DOUL. _drawing back a little, hurt, but indignant._ — It’s a queer thing, maybe, for all things is queer in the world. (_In a low voice with peculiar emphasis._) But there’s one thing I’m telling you, if she walked off away from me, it wasn’t because of seeing me, and I no more than I am, but because I was looking on her with my two eyes, and she getting up, and eating her food, and combing her hair, and lying down for her sleep. MOLLY BYRNE. _interested, off her guard._ — Wouldn’t any married man you’d have be doing the like of that? MARTIN DOUL. _seizing the moment that he has her attention._ — I’m thinking by the mercy of God it’s few sees anything but them is blind for a space (_with excitement._) It’s a few sees the old woman rotting for the grave, and it’s few sees the like of yourself. (_He bends over her._) Though it’s shining you are, like a high lamp would drag in the ships out of the sea. MOLLY BYRNE. _shrinking away from him._ — Keep off from me, Martin Doul. MARTIN DOUL. _quickly, with low, furious intensity._ — It’s the truth I’m telling you. (_He puts his hand on her shoulder and shakes her._) And you’d do right not to marry a man is after looking out a long while on the bad days of the world; for what way would the like of him have fit eyes to look on yourself, when you rise up in the morning and come out of the little door you have above in the lane, the time it’d be a fine thing if a man would be seeing, and losing his sight, the way he’d have your two eyes facing him, and he going the roads, and shining above him, and he looking in the sky, and springing up from the earth, the time he’d lower his head, in place of the muck that seeing men do meet all roads spread on the world.