JONES. [Crossing the room gloomily.] If you think I want to leave
the little beggars you're bloomin' well mistaken.
MRS. JONES. Of course I know you're fond of them.
JONES. [Fingering the purse, half angrily.] Well, then, you stow
it, old girl. The kids 'll get along better with you than when I 'm
here. If I 'd ha' known as much as I do now, I 'd never ha' had one
o' them. What's the use o' bringin' 'em into a state o' things like
this? It's a crime, that's what it is; but you find it out too late;
that's what's the matter with this 'ere world.
[He puts the purse back in his pocket.]
MRS. JONES. Of course it would have been better for them, poor
little things; but they're your own children, and I wonder at you
talkin' like that. I should miss them dreadfully if I was to lose
them.
JONES. [Sullenly.] An' you ain't the only one. If I make money
out there--[Looking up, he sees her shaking out his coat--in a
changed voice.] Leave that coat alone!
[The silver box drops from the pocket, scattering the
cigarettes upon the bed. Taking up the box she stares at it;
he rushes at her and snatches the box away.]
MRS. JONES. [Cowering back against the bed.] Oh, Jem! oh, Jem!
JONES.
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