AMY. ‘Five. She looked more.’
GINEVRA, her brows knitted, ‘Molly is under two, isn’t she?’
AMY. ‘She is not quite twenty months.’
GINEVRA. ‘She couldn’t possibly do it.’
AMY. ‘No; I thought of that. But she couldn’t, you know, even though she was held up. Mother couldn’t help thinking the scene was a good omen, though.’ They both look at the ceiling again. ‘How still they are.’
GINEVRA. ‘Perhaps she hasn’t had the courage to tell.’
AMY. ‘If so, I must go on with it.’
GINEVRA, feeling rather small beside Amy, ‘Marry him?’
AMY. ‘Yes. I must dree my weird. Is it dree your weird, or weird your dree?’
GINEVRA. ‘I think they both do.’ She does not really care; nobler thoughts are surging within her. ‘Amy, why can’t I make some sacrifice as well as you?’