JULIE. When I was sick, you took care of me.
MARAT [draws her tenderly toward him, and looks into her eyes, smoothing her hair back from her face.] Yes, your name is Julie. Your mother is a washerwoman. You had measles last winter. You were afraid. You cried as you lay in your little bed, because you didn't want to die. [She turns her head away. He takes the child's head and presses it to his breast as he smiles.] Don't be ashamed. So, you understood me, eh? You are with me? Do you know what I should like?
JULIE. Yes, and I want it, too—[The rest of her sentence is lost, as she hesitates.]
MARAT. What?
JULIE [raising her head and speaking with an air of conviction that causes the bystanders to smile]. Liberty.
MARAT. What would you do with it?
JULIE. Give it.
MARAT. To whom?
JULIE. To the poor people who are in prison.
MARAT. Where?