MRS MARCH. It didn't smother it; or condemn the girl.

MR MARCH. [Running his hands through his hair] The more I think of
that--! [He turns away.]

MRS MARCH. [Indicating her husband] You see, Cook, that's the mood in
which I have to engage a parlour-maid. What am I to do with your master?

COOK. It's an 'ealthy rage, ma'am.

MRS MARCH. I'm tired of being the only sober person in this house.

COOK. [Reproachfully] Oh! ma'am, I never touch a drop.

MRS MARCH. I didn't mean anything of that sort. But they do break out
so.

COOK. Not Master Johnny.

MRS MARCH. Johnny! He's the worst of all. His poetry is nothing but
one long explosion.

MR MARCH. [Coming from the window] I say We ought to have faith and
jump.

MRS MARCH. If we do have Faith, we shall jump.

COOK. [Blankly] Of course, in the Bible they 'ad faith, and just look
what it did to them!