JOE. [Under his breath.] A thief's daughter.
[Covers his face with his hands.
MARY. Joe!
JOE. Not nice, is it? Can't be helped, of course. And who cares? For three months this game has gone on—we getting shabbier, wretcheder, hungrier—no one bothers—all they say is "keep off the pavement." Let's see what's in the purse.
MARY. [Eagerly.] Yes, yes!
JOE. [Lifting his head as he is on the point of opening the purse.]
That's the policeman passing.
MARY. [Impatiently.] Never mind that—
JOE. [Turning to the purse again.] First time in my life I've been afraid when I heard the policeman.
[He has his finger on the catch of the purse when he pauses for a moment—then acting on a sudden impulse, makes a dart for the door, opens it, and is out, and up the area steps.
MARY. [With a despairing cry.] Joe!