MARY. Then why do you hate them ?
ROBERT. I don't any longer. I 'ates myself, I 'ates the world I live in, I 'ates the bloomin' muck 'ole I've landed into!
MARY. Your wife's dead, you say?
ROBERT. Yus.
MARY. What would she think about it all?
ROBERT [hollowly, without variation]. I don't know: I don't know:
I don't know.
[MARY sits down beside him.]
MARY [thoughtfully]. Isn't it strange—both our wishes alike! You want your little girl; and I, my father!
ROBERT. What sort of a . . .
MARY. Yes?