ROBERT. Yus: they've made 'er summat, as I couldn't 'a' done.

MARY. Then why do you hate them ?

ROBERT. I don't any longer. I 'ates myself, I 'ates the world I
live in, I 'ates the bloomin' muck 'ole I've landed into!

MARY. Your wife's dead, you say?

ROBERT. Yus.

MARY. What would she think about it all?

ROBERT [hollowly, without variation]. I don't know: I don't know:
I don't know.

[MARY sits down beside him.]

MARY [thoughtfully]. Isn't it strange--both our wishes alike! You
want your little girl; and I, my father!

ROBERT. What sort of a . . .

MARY. Yes?

ROBERT. What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss?

MARY. I don't know. I have never seen him.

ROBERT. Got no idea? Never--'eard _tell_ of 'im?