"What do you lack with your barbed wire? Crucifix not thick enough? (He clutches her veil.) A holy abbot you want or Brophy, the lame gardener, or the spoutless statue of the watercarrier, or good Mother Alphonsus, eh Reynard?


(With a cry flees from him unveiled, her plaster cast cracking, a cloud of stench escaping from the cracks.) Poli...!


(calls after her) As if you didn't get it on the double yourselves. No jerks and multiple mucosities all over you. I tried it. Your strength our weakness. What's our studfee? What will you pay on the nail? You fee mendancers on the Riviera, I read. (the fleeing nymph raises a keen) Eh? I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me. And would a jury give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh? Fool someone else, not me. (he sniffs) Rut. Onions. Stale. Sulphur. Grease."