What shall we do?
DICK.
I don't know. (A pause. They look at each other.) Stay, that's lucky. Here's a pair of dancing pumps as belongs to old Mrs. Crusty, the baker's wife at the corner—
MARGERY—(gaily.)
We can't eat them for dinner, I guess.
DICK.
No, no; but I'm just at the last stitch.
MARGERY.
Yes—