A hammock under
the acacias shows that MARY lies there sometimes with her eyes on
the gleam of sunlight that comes through: and a trail in the longish
grass, bordered with cigarette ends, proves that JOHNNY tramps there
with his eyes on the ground or the stars, according. But all this
is by the way, because except for a yard or two of gravel terrace
outside the windows, it is all painted on the backcloth. The
MARCHES have been at breakfast, and the round table, covered with
blue linen, is thick with remains, seven baskets full. The room is
gifted with old oak furniture: there is a door, stage Left, Forward;
a hearth, where a fire is burning, and a high fender on which one
can sit, stage Right, Middle; and in the wall below the fireplace,
a service hatch covered with a sliding shutter, for the passage of
dishes into the adjoining pantry. Against the wall, stage Left, is
an old oak dresser, and a small writing table across the Left Back
corner. MRS MARCH still sits behind the coffee pot, making up her
daily list on tablets with a little gold pencil fastened to her
wrist. She is personable, forty-eight, trim, well-dressed, and more
matter-of-fact than seems plausible.
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