]
MRS. MEGAN. Let go my hand, please!
FERRAND. [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.]
There is one thing I have never done--'urt a woman--that is hardly in
my character. [Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her
face.] Tell me, Ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long?
MRS. MEGAN. I dunno--lots, I thinks of.
FERRAND. Shall I tell you? [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the
strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along."
He goes on in his ironic voice.] It is of the streets--the lights--
the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it
is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love. That is for you
what the road is for me. That is for you what the rum is for that
old--[He jerks his thumb back at TIMSON. Then bending swiftly
forward to the girl.] See! I kiss you--Ah!
[He draws her forward off the stool. There is a little
struggle, then she resigns her lips. The little stool,
overturned, falls with a clatter. They spring up, and move
apart. The door opens and ANN enters from the house in a blue
dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above
her head. Taking in the strange half-circle round the stove,
she recoils. Then, standing her ground, calls in a voice
sharpened by fright: "Daddy--Daddy!"]
TIMSON. [Stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.] All right!
I'm comin'!
FERRAND.
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