DAN: She died when I was six. I know that, because my dad died two
years before that.

MRS. BRAMSON (_vaguely_): Oh.

DAN (_studying her_): As a matter o' fact--

MRS. BRAMSON: Yes?

DAN: Oh, no, it's a daft thing--

MRS. BRAMSON (_the old tart note creeping back_): Come along now!
Out with it!

DAN: It's only fancy, I suppose ... but ... you remind me a bit of her.

MRS. BRAMSON: Of your mother? (_As he nods simply, her sentimentality
stirring_) Oh ...

DAN: Have you got a son?

MRS. BRAMSON (_self-pityingly_): I haven't anybody at all.

DAN: Oh ... But I don't like to talk too much about my mother.
(_Putting a finger unobtrusively to his eye_) Makes me feel ...
sort of sad ... (_With a sudden thought_) She had the same eyes
very wide apart as you, and--and the same very good hands.

MRS. BRAMSON (_looking interestedly at her fingers_): Oh?... And
the same palpitations?