LARRY--That's good sense for you. A good beef stew'll fix you. Go
round the corner.

CHRIS--All right. Ay be back soon, Marthy. [CHRIS goes through the
bar and out the street door.]

LARRY--He'll come round all right with some grub in him.

MARTHY--Sure. [LARRY goes back to the bar and resumes his
newspaper. MARTHY sips what is left of her schooner reflectively.
There is the ring of the family entrance bell. LARRY comes to the
door and opens it a trifle--then, with a puzzled expression, pulls
it wide. ANNA CHRISTOPHERSON enters. She is a tall, blond, fully-
developed girl of twenty, handsome after a large, Viking-daughter
fashion but now run down in health and plainly showing all the
outward evidences of belonging to the world's oldest profession.
Her youthful face is already hard and cynical beneath its layer of
make-up. Her clothes are the tawdry finery of peasant stock turned
prostitute. She comes and sinks wearily in a chair by the table,
left front.]

ANNA--Gimme a whiskey--ginger ale on the side. [Then, as LARRY
turns to go, forcing a winning smile at him.] And don't be stingy,
baby.

LARRY--[Sarcastically.] Shall I serve it in a pail?

ANNA--[With a hard laugh.] That suits me down to the ground.
[LARRY goes into the bar. The two women size each other up with