MADGE. We don't want your money.
ENID. You don't understand, and you don't want to; please to go away!
MADGE. [Balefully.] You've killed her, for all your soft words, you and your father!
ENID. [With rage and emotion.] That's wicked! My father is suffering himself through this wretched strike.
MADGE. [With sombre triumph.] Then tell him Mrs. Roberts is dead! That 'll make him better.
ENID. Go away!
MADGE. When a person hurts us we get it back on them.
[She makes a sudden and swift movement towards ENID, fixing her eyes on the child's frock lying across the little table. ENID snatches the frock up, as though it were the child itself. They stand a yard apart, crossing glances.]
MADGE. [Pointing to the frock with a little smile.] Ah! You felt that! Lucky it's her mother—not her children—you've to look after, is n't it. She won't trouble you long!
ENID. Go away!