Madden. Well, I don't guess I do. Not one like you!
Mrs. Madden. That's right! That's right! You don' know how t' treat a lady.
Madden [controlling himself]. Look here, Florrie. Don't let's get all het up over this.
Mrs. Madden. Who's gettin' het up? [Bursting past him toward the door at the left.] I wish t' God you was a gen'leman!
Madden. Florrie—don't!
Mrs. Madden [turning on him from the other side of the table]. W'y don't y' go out an' dig in th' ditch? Y'd earn a damn sight more money th'n—
Madden [with angry impatience]. You know I'm not strong enough.
Mrs. Madden. Bony little shrimp! Not even pep enough t' have kids!
Madden [beside himself]. Florence! [Going toward her.] I'm goin' to tell you some things I never thought I would. You're just a plain, common, selfish, vulgar woman! You don't care one penny for anybody except yourself. You an' your clothes an' your movies an' your sodas an' your candy! [Mrs. Madden is glowering at him across the table. She is beginning to weep with rage.—Two or three times she opens her mouth as if to speak, but each time he cuts her short.] Look at the way you been leavin' this house lately. [He makes an inclusive gesture toward the room.] The four years I've lived with you would drive a saint to Hell! [Mrs. Madden marches furiously by him and over to her hat and coat, which are hanging from pegs at the right, just in front of the stove.] I wish I'd never seen you!
Mrs. Madden [getting her coat and hat]. D' y' think I'm goin' t' stay in this house t' be talked to like that? [Putting on her hat viciously.] D' y' think I'm goin' t' stand that kind of a thing? [Putting on her coat.—Sobbing angrily.] I guess ... you'll be ... pretty sorry when I've ... gone. [Coming closer to him on her way to the outside door.] If ... if I did somethin' ... if somethin' ... happened t' me ... I guess you ... you wouldn't never ... f'give yerself! [She is at the door.]