MRS MARCH. That'll be three. [To herself] Spinach.
JOHNNY. If you'd just missed being killed for three blooming years for no spiritual result whatever, you'd want something to bite on, Mary.
MRS MARCH. [Jotting] Soap.
JOHNNY. What price the little and weak, now? Freedom and self-determination, and all that?
MARY. Forty to one—no takers.
JOHNNY. It doesn't seem to worry you.
MARY. Well, what's the good?
JOHNNY. Oh, you're a looker on, Mary.
MR MARCH. [To his newspaper] Of all Godforsaken time-servers!
MARY is moved so lar as to turn and look over his shoulder a minute.