Well, it's only a month's wages.
MARY. [Softly] She won't like it.
MR MARCH. Well, let's see her, Mr Bly; let's see her, if you don't mind.
BLY. Oh, I don't mind, sir, and she won't neither; she's used to bein'
inspected by now. Why! she 'ad her bumps gone over just before she came
out!
MR MARCH. [Touched on the raw again] H'm! Too bad! Mary, go and fetch
her.
MARY, with a doubting smile, goes out. [Rising] You might give me
the details of that trial, Mr Bly. I'll see if I can't write
something that'll make people sit up. That's the way to send Youth
to hell! How can a child who's had a rope round her neck--!
BLY. [Who has been fumbling in his pocket, produces some yellow
paper-cuttings clipped together] Here's her references--the whole
literature of the case. And here's a letter from the chaplain in one of
the prisons sayin' she took a lot of interest in him; a nice young man,
I believe. [He suddenly brushes a tear out of his eye with the back of
his hand] I never thought I could 'a felt like I did over her bein' in
prison. Seemed a crool senseless thing--that pretty girl o' mine. All
over a baby that hadn't got used to bein' alive.
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