Marie, dear, listen to me! You have been so kind to me of late--and that has not always been so; but if you had sacrificed for me even more than your own comfort and rest, I--I could not do it--I could not deceive your father and mother, for I fear the consequences.
Marie.
Then can't you understand that, a foundling though I am, a desire might come over me to see my own mother, though she be but a common beggar and an outcast? That I might want to lay my head on her shoulder and be petted and fondled, and cry myself to sleep on mine--on my own mother's breast?
George.
Are you not fondled, are you not petted--has mama not always been kind to you?
Marie.
Yes, but it is not the same--not the same. Never have I felt the desire, the demand within me for my own flesh and blood, as just now.
George.
But why just now?