closed.

DARTREY

Cuts?

GILRUTH

(Nods) Her head. And her face. Cuts. Blood after all that time.

(He clenches and unclenches his hands nervously and furiously. He
gets up slowly, walks over to the fireplace, shivers, then braces
himself trying to shake off the horror of his thoughts. Then he
begins to speak brokenly and tremblingly endeavoring to moisten
his lips with a dry tongue)

Never saw anything to equal the kindness of those poor peasants.
They gave the clothes from their bodies; the blankets from their
beds. And took nothing. Not a thing. "We're all in this," they
said. "We're doing our best. It's little enough." That's what
they sayd. Pretty find the Irish of Queenstown. Eh?

(Dartrey nods. He does not trust himself to speak)

A monument. That's what the Irish peasants of Queenstown should
have. A monument. Never slept, some of them. Wrapped the soaking
woman in their shawls--and the little children. Took off their
wet things and gave them dry, warm ones. Fed them with broths they
cooked themselves. Spent their poor savings on brandy for them.
Stripped the clothes off their own backs for them to travel in when