It's great jokes the people'll be
making now, I'm thinking, and they pass me by, pointing their
fingers maybe, and asking what place is himself, the way it's no
quiet or decency I'll have from this day till I'm an old woman
with long white hair and it twisting from my brow. (She fumbles
with her hair, and then seems to hear something. Listens for a
moment.) There's a queer, slouching step coming on the road. . .
. God help me, he's coming surely.
[She stays perfectly quiet. Martin Doul gropes in on right,
blind also.]
MARTIN DOUL -- [gloomily.] -- The devil mend Mary Doul for
putting lies on me, and letting on she was grand. The devil mend
the old Saint for letting me see it was lies. (He sits down near
her.) The devil mend Timmy the smith for killing me with hard
work, and keeping me with an empty, windy stomach in me, in the
day and in the night. Ten thousand devils mend the soul of Molly
Byrne -- (Mary Doul nods her head with approval.) -- and the bad,
wicked souls is hidden in all the women of the world. (He rocks
himself, with his hand over his face.) It's lonesome I'll be
from this day, and if living people is a bad lot, yet Mary Doul,
herself, and she a dirty, wrinkled-looking hag, was better maybe
to be sitting along with than no one at all.
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