BOB. Good God, no!
PAMELA. Then why are you being sarcastic about it? Be honest with yourself, Bob. You made a mess of the City. Oh, I know you weren't suited to it, but men have had to do work they didn't like before now, and they haven't all made a mess of it. You're getting your punishment now—much more than you deserve, and we're all sorry for you—but men have been punished unfairly before now and they have stood it. You'll have your chance when you come back; I'll stand by you for one, and you've plenty of other friends; but we can't help a man who won't help himself, you know.
Bon (sulkily). Thank you, Pamela.
PAMELA (shaking him). Bob, Bob, don't be such a baby. Oh, I want to laugh at you, and yet my heart just aches for you. You're just a little boy, Bob (with a sigh), on the last day of his holidays.
BOB (after a pause). Are you allowed to have letters in prison?
PAMELA. I expect so. Every now and then.
BOB. You will write to me?
PAMELA. Of course, dear; whenever I may.
BOB. I suppose some beast will read it. But you won't mind that, will you?
PAMELA. No, dear.