BUILDER. [Suddenly] Give me that paper on the table. No; the other
one--the Will.
TOPPING takes up the Will and gives it to him.
TOPPING. [With much hesitation] Excuse me, sir. It's pluck that get's
'em 'ome, sir--begging your pardon.
BUILDER has resumed his attitude and does not answer.
[In a voice just touched with feeling] Good-night, sir.
BUILDER. [Without turning his head] Good-night.
TOPPING has gone. BUILDER sits drawing at his pipe between the
firelight and the light from the standard lamp. He takes the pipe
out of his mouth and a quiver passes over his face. With a half
angry gesture he rubs the back of his hand across his eyes.
BUILDER. [To himself] Pluck! Pluck! [His lips quiver again. He
presses them hard together, puts his pipe back into his mouth, and,
taking the Will, thrusts it into the newly-lighted fire and holds it
there with a poker.]
While he is doing this the door from the hall is opened quietly, and
MRS BUILDER enters without his hearing her. She has a work bag in
her hand. She moves slowly to the table, and stands looking at him.
Then going up to the curtains she mechanically adjusts them, and
still keeping her eyes on BUILDER, comes down to the table and pours
out his usual glass of whisky toddy.
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