(Cynically)
Of course not. Sooner or later, a woman always confesses to someone.
Mrs. Sabine
(Quickly)
What did you want me to do? Think of you? I was sick of him. When I saw he wasn’t going to make a fuss, I didn’t think your well-known reputation would suffer; so I didn’t care about protecting myself. What’s the difference, anyhow? He can’t give me what I want: you can. If we can only keep it quiet, nobody need know—and it wouldn’t even reach your daughter’s ears.
Randolph
(Angrily)
We’ll not discuss her.
Mrs. Sabine
No. She’s a good woman—with her lily hands and her thin eyebrows. What does she know of life: the sordid soapy hours ending with the snore of a husband you hate. Ugh! (He walks up and down, irritated.) Well, then, what are we going to do to keep it from her?