JOE. [Holding her hand in his, and bending over her.] You forgive me for returning the purse?
MARY. [Dropping her head on his shoulder.] Forgive you! You were right.
It was the cold and the hunger maddened me. You were right!
JOE. [Springing to his feet, with sudden passion. MARY staggers back.]
I wasn't right—I was a coward, a criminal—a vile and wicked fool.
MARY. [Startled.] Joe!
JOE. I had money there—money in my hand—money that you need so badly, you, the woman I love with all my ragged soul—money that would have put food into the body of my little girl—money that was mine, that belonged to me—and I've given it back, because of my rotten honesty! What right have I to be honest? They've made a dog of me—what business had I to remember I was a man?
MARY. [Following him and laying a hand on his arm.] Hush, Joe—you'll wake Minnie.
JOE. [Turning and staring haggardly at her.] I could have got clothes—a job, perhaps—we might have left this cellar. We could have gone out to-morrow and bought things—gone into shops—we might have had food, coal—
MARY. Don't, Joe—what's the use? And who knows—it may prove a blessing to us. You told the policeman where we lived?
JOE. A blessing! I'll get up to-morrow, after having coughed out my lungs all night—and I'll go into the streets and walk there from left to right and from right to left, standing at this corner and at that, peering into men's faces, watching people go to their shops and their offices, people who are warm and comfortable—and so it will go on, till the end comes.
MARY. [Standing very close to him, almost in a whisper.] Why not now,
Joe?