HERBORIST. ... The case was brought before the judge. The mother
insisted that she had left the child on the ridge, and that it
must have walked down to the shore while she was gathering some
dulse. Each of us had to point out the spot where she had left the
child, but the mother pointed to the ridge. As she raised her
three fingers to swear that it was true, a wave rose, and out of
it shot a white column of foam. It stretched like an arm into the
air--like an arm with three swearing fingers. The sea itself swore
against her.

HADDA PADDA [A cold shiver runs through her. She draws her scarf
more closely around her]. It is so strangely cold here.

HERBORIST. The sun is going down. I had better be going. [The bag
upsets, and some plants slip out.]

HADDA PADDA. The dandelion is slipping out of the bag. Grant the
dandelion its life.

HERBORIST. I can't grant the dandelion its life. Perhaps to-morrow
a mother will come with her little girl. "Rid her of her warts,"
she will say, "for her hands are so fine." ...

HADDA PADDA [takes the dandelion in her hands]. Grant the
dandelion its life. Do you see how it stretches its thousand
delicate fingers to the fading light? If you plant it again, it
will close up and be silent a whole night with joy.

HERBORIST. You are silent and you don't smile--is it with joy?