MR MARCH. [Pricking his ears] What? Have you had dealings with them?
BLY. Over the reprieve that was got up for my daughter. But I'm keepin' you.
He swabs at the window, but always at the same pane, so that he does not advance at all.
MR MARCH. Reprieve?
BLY. Ah! She was famous at eighteen. The Sunday Mercury was full of her, when she was in prison.
MR MARCH. [Delicately] Dear me! I'd no idea.
BLY. She's out now; been out a fortnight. I always say that fame's ephemereal. But she'll never settle to that weavin'. Her head got turned a bit.
MR MARCH. I'm afraid I'm in the dark, Mr Bly.
BLY. [Pausing—dipping his sponge in the pail and then standing with it in his hand] Why! Don't you remember the Bly case? They sentenced 'er to be 'anged by the neck until she was dead, for smotherin' her baby. She was only eighteen at the time of speakin'.
MR MARCH. Oh! yes! An inhuman business!