(She interposes and lays hold of him. A cold rigour seizes her)
Snowman. Why do you touch me?
Joan. Why do you come here? Who are you? Answer! (He again moves forward) No, you don’t go there! You shan’t, you shan’t come nigh of ’em.
Snowman. Take care! My touch is—cold!
Joan.—
You think I’m feard o’ that?
You think them eyes as I be looking at
Have any fear for me, or shape of dread?
Worse that what life ’ave?
(With a sort of exultation)