GERALD. In the right—in the right!—They're just greedy, incompetent, stupid, gloating in a sense of the worst sort of power. They're like vicious children, who would like to kill their parents so that they could have the run of the larder. The rest is just cant.
ANABEL. If you're the parent in the case, I must say you flow over with loving-kindness for them.
GERALD. I don't—I detest them. I only hope they will fight. If they would, I'd have some respect for them. But you'll see what it will be.
ANABEL. I wish I needn't, for it's very sickening.
GERALD. Sickening beyond expression.
ANABEL. I wish we could go right away.
GERALD. So do I—If one could get oneself out of this. But one can't. It's the same wherever you have industrialism—and you have industrialism everywhere, whether it's in Timbuctoo or Paraguay or Antananarivo.
ANABEL. No, it isn't: you exaggerate.
JOB ARTHUR (suddenly approaching from the other side). Good evening, Mr. Barlow. I heard you were in here. Could I have a word with you?
GERALD. Get on with it, then.