First, Phœbe—and then, Bell ... Oh, Jim!
Steps are heard on the threshold, and Michael and Ruth enter, carrying their sleeping sons, Nicholas, aged five, and Ralph, aged three. They put down the children on the settle by the hearth, where they sit, dazed and silent, sleepily rubbing their eyes.
Ruth:
Well, I’m not sorry to be home again:
My arms are fairly broken.
Michael:
Ay: they’re heavy.
The hoggerel you lift up turns a sheep
Before you set it down again. Well, Judith,
You’ve had a quiet day of it, I warrant?
Judith (in a low voice):
Michael, your mother’s here.
Michael:
My mother here?