COOK. Dear, dear! They must be quite fresh to you, then! How long was it?
FAITH. Two years.
COOK. And never a day out? What did you do all the time? Did they learn you anything?
FAITH. Weaving. That's why I hate it.
COOK. Tell me about your poor little baby. I'm sure you meant it for the best.
FAITH. [Sardonically] Yes; I was afraid they'd make it a ward in
Chancery.
COOK. Oh! dear—what things do come into your head! Why! No one can take a baby from its mother.
FAITH. Except the Law.
COOK. Tt! Tt! Well! Here's the pickled onions. Miss Mary loves 'em!
Now then, let me see you lay the cloth.
She takes a tablecloth out, hands it to FAITH, and while the girl
begins to unfold the cloth she crosses to the service shutter.