--
My soul, I've done with all you pretty men;
I want to stand in a thing as big as a wind;
And I can only get your paper fans!
_Hamish_.
You've done with me? You wicked Jean! You'll dare
To throw me off like this? After you've made,
O, made my whole heart love you?
_Jean_.
You are no good.
Your friend, now, seems a likely man; but you?--
I thought you were a torch; and you're a squib.
_Hamish_.
Not love you enough? Death, I'll show you then.
_Jean_.
Hands off, Hamish. There's smoke in you, I know,
And splutter too. Hands off, I say.
_Hamish_.
By God
Tell me to-morrow there's no force in me!
_Jean_.
Leave go, you little beast, you're hurting me:
I never thought you'ld be so strong as this.
Let go, or I'll bite; I mean it. You young fool,
I'm not for you. Take off your hands. O help!
[MORRIS _has come in unseen and rushes forward_.
_Morris_.
You beast! You filthy villainous fellow!--Now,
I hope I've hurt the hellish brain in you.
Take yourself off. You'll need a nurse to-night.
[HAMISH _slinks out_.
Poor girl! And are you sprained at all? That ruffian!
_Jean_.
O sir, how can I thank you? You don't know
What we poor serving girls must put up with.
We don't hear many voices like yours, sir.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88