Hel. Yes, I am Mrs. Bridgmore.
Poe. My dear Mrs. Bridgmore! The pleasure of years gathers in this happy moment. Are you making holiday purchases?
Hel. No ... just poking about. I love these old stores. I see you ’ve made a sale. ’T is a relief to get rid of old books when we ’ve lost our love for them, is n’t it? They take up good room on our shelves pretty much as people do in our lives long after we have ceased to care for their friendship. But what one is weary of another is ready to take up. (To bookseller) May I see the book the gentleman has just disposed of? (To Poe) Anything you have liked will be sure to please me.
Poe. O, you are mistaken! I am simply leaving the book to be duplicated if possible for a friend of mine who has taken a fancy to my copy. (Gesticulates to bookseller) One glance, Mrs. Bridgmore, will tell you that the book is not for sale.
Hel. Ah ... of course not. Pardon the mistake. It seems to be my fate to blunder where you are concerned. (Icily) Good morning, Mr. Poe.
(As she is going out she drops her purse. Poe hastens to pick it up and restores it to her with a bow. In doing so he forgets his shabby coat and throws back his cloak over his arm, exposing a badly worn sleeve. He becomes suddenly conscious of her observation, and straightens up in his most dignified fashion)
Hel. Thank you. (Goes out)
Poe. (Turning to bookseller) Here! Take your damned silver! Give me my book!
Bookseller. A bargain ’s a bargain, sir.
Poe. Bargain! bargain! Do you call that theft a bargain? You parasite! you bookgnat! You insect feeding on men’s brains! You worm in the corpse of genius! My book, I say, or by Hector I ’ll tear your goose-liver from your body, you pocket-itching Jacob!