ENID. [With a movement of grief.] Oh! why wouldn't she let me help
her? It's such senseless pride!
MADGE. Pride's better than nothing to keep your body warm.
ENID. [Passionately.] I won't talk to you! How can you tell what I
feel? It's not my fault that I was born better off than you.
MADGE. We don't want your money.
ENID. You don't understand, and you don't want to; please to go
away!
MADGE. [Balefully.] You've killed her, for all your soft words, you
and your father!
ENID. [With rage and emotion.] That's wicked! My father is
suffering himself through this wretched strike.
MADGE. [With sombre triumph.] Then tell him Mrs. Roberts is dead!
That 'll make him better.
ENID. Go away!
MADGE. When a person hurts us we get it back on them.
[She makes a sudden and swift movement towards ENID, fixing her
eyes on the child's frock lying across the little table. ENID
snatches the frock up, as though it were the child itself. They
stand a yard apart, crossing glances.]
MADGE. [Pointing to the frock with a little smile.] Ah! You felt
that! Lucky it's her mother--not her children--you've to look after,
is n't it. She won't trouble you long!
ENID.
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