So. In which street or quarter was your home?
Hamutal.
The twisted stinking quarter of the poor,
One where you never trod, near the fish-market.
Jezebel.
I trod there often, and its filthiest lane,
Silvered with cat-gnawn droppings of the nets,
Was blessed to me. It is blest in memory.
Hamutal.
Perhaps to others it is not so blest.
I know my father starved there; so did I.
That’s past. The question now is, Is the man
Gone from the door?
Jezebel.
The man who brought you here?
Look.
Rose-Flower (looking.)