WELLWYN. So Ann thinks. Vicar, what's become of that little
flower-seller I was painting at Christmas? You took her into
service.
BERTLEY. Not we--exactly! Some dear friends of ours. Painful
subject!
WELLWYN. Oh!
BERTLEY. Yes. She got the footman into trouble.
WELLWYN. Did she, now?
BERTLEY. Disappointing. I consulted with CALWAY, and he advised me
to try a certain institution. We got her safely in--excellent
place; but, d'you know, she broke out three weeks ago. And since--
I've heard [he holds his hands up] hopeless, I'm afraid--quite!
WELLWYN. I thought I saw her last night. You can't tell me her
address, I suppose?
BERTLEY. [Shaking his head.] The husband too has quite passed out
of my ken. He betted on horses, you remember. I'm sometimes
tempted to believe there's nothing for some of these poor folk but
to pray for death.
[ANN has entered from the house. Her hair hangs from under a
knitted cap. She wears a white wool jersey, and a loose silk
scarf.]
BERTLEY. Ah! Ann. I was telling your father of that poor little
Mrs. Megan.
ANN.
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