The Lady. Yes.
The Girl. I don’t believe it.
The Lady. It is true nevertheless.
The Girl. Well, if you aint sorry?
The Lady. But surely you are—You must be!
The Girl. No I aint. It was better dead.
The Lady. What do you mean?
The Girl. I tell ye, it was better to be dead. Say, Lady—in them wrong things you done you can’t remember did ye—did ye ever kill a kid that hadn’t hardly breathed—Say, did ye—did ye?
The Lady. Oh, oh—What shall I do? Hattie! Hattie! Try and stop crying. I’m so grieved for you. Tell me what you wish—only don’t cry so!
The Girl. I aint sorry.