You have burned yourself, Mistress Deborah! The poor little hand! (He tears up his handkerchief.) Let me bandage it for you! It is sorely blistered!
DEBORAH
(tears in her voice the while she submits her hand to him).
I can tolerate blisters, Master Franklin. They are far less irksome than—than——
FRANKLIN
(gravely bandaging her hand).
Than journeymen printers who eat their bread in the street. Perhaps you are right, Mistress Deborah. I trust that the blisters will soon heal; and that the memory of the journeyman printer will not trouble you further.
DEBORAH
(as the church-bells begin to ring without).
The memory of a chance traveler is easily forgot, Master Franklin.
ELIZABETH
(outside door, left).
Come, Deborah, we shall be late! Come quickly, child! (Deborah snatches up her cloak.) Bid Benjamin Franklin to wait my husband's return. He would talk to him further concerning books. Come, Deborah!
[Exit Deborah, left, without a glance at Franklin.