Holy Mother of Saints! What are you grinnin’ at, ye dirty heathen?
(She lifts her arm again in revolt as though to throw the mop at it. Then she puts it down with a sense of futility. She picks up her things and goes off slowly.
The place is now dark save for the faint light on the skull; and even that fades after a little while.)
[Curtain]
FOOTNOTES:
[B] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.