Dr. Thorne (eagerly). What did they find—anything to justify the butchery?
Mrs. True. Of course not. Didn’t you say there wasn’t?
Dr. Thorne (gratefully). You always were a loyal patient—better than I deserved.
Mrs. True. You always were a kind doctor—better than I deserved.
Dr. Thorne. And they slaughtered you in my hospital!
Mrs. True (hurrying on). Have you seen my husband? Do you know where my mother is? I lost a baby twenty years ago. I want to see the little thing. And oh? when can I see—?
(She breaks off, with a devout expression, and moves away; joins the upper group of spirits. Two of these can be seen to meet and embrace her, and lead her on.)
[Vanish Mrs. True.
Enter Jerry, the loafer, hurriedly and
stumbling. His robe is of dull blue,
something in the fashion of a smock-frock,
or butcher’s blouse.
Jerry (staring about him stupidly, and with a kind of social embarrassment, as if he had been suddenly introduced into a drawing-room). Div-niver a cint in me pocket, and me hoofin’ it in this quaer counthree. (Scratches his head, and mutters unintelligibly.) ... I wondher where the ... sinsible saints I’m at.