AUNTIE. Yes, William, that's true, but the opportunity of turning it to God's service . . .
VICAR. Do you think any blessing is going to fall upon a church whose every stone is reeking with the bloody sweat and anguish of the human creatures whom the wealth of men like that has driven to despair? Shall we base God's altar in the bones of harlots, plaster it up with the slime of sweating-dens and slums, give it over for a gaming-table to the dice of gamblers and of thieves?
AUNTIE. Why will you exaggerate, my dear?—It is not as bad as that. Why don't you compose yourself and try and be contented and—and happy?
VICAR. How can I be happy, and that man poisoning the air I breathe?
AUNTIE. You are not always like this, dear! . . .
VICAR. Happy! How can I be happy, and my brother Robert what I have made him!
AUNTIE. We are not talking of Robert: we are talking of you! Think of our love, William—our great and beautiful love! Isn't that something to make you happy?
VICAR. Our love? It's well you mention it. That question had better be faced, too! Our love! Well, what of it? What is love?
AUNTIE. Oh, William, you know . . .
VICAR. Is love a murderer? Does love go roaming about the world like Satan, to slay men's souls?