Joyce: I am sure I do not.
Martin: No? Then a hair of some sort. How will you be able to sleep to-night with a hair on your conscience? For your own sake, lift that crowbar.
Joyce: To tell you the truth, I fear to redeem my promise lest you are unable to redeem yours.
Martin: Which was?
Joyce: To blow it to its fellow, who is now wandering in the night like thistledown.
Martin: I will do it, nevertheless.
Joyce: It is easier promised than proved. But here is the hair.
Martin: Are you certain it is the same hair?
Joyce: I kept it wound round my finger.
Martin: I know no better way of keeping a hair. So here it goes!