Call him George.
HOTCHKISS. Do you love your Jorjy Porjy?
MRS GEORGE. Oh, I dont know that I love him. He's my husband, you
know. But if I got anxious about George's health, and I thought
it would nourish him, I would fry you with onions for his
breakfast and think nothing of it. George and I are good friends.
George belongs to me. Other men may come and go; but George goes
on for ever.
HOTCHKISS. Yes: a husband soon becomes nothing but a habit.
Listen: I suppose this detestable fascination you have for me is
love.
MRS GEORGE. Any sort of feeling for a woman is called love
nowadays.
HOTCHKISS. Do you love me?
MRS GEORGE [promptly] My love is not quite so cheap an article as
that, my lad. I wouldnt cross the street to have another look at
you--not yet. I'm not starving for love like the robins in
winter, as the good ladies youre accustomed to are. Youll have to
be very clever, and very good, and very real, if you are to
interest me. If George takes a fancy to you, and you amuse him
enough, I'll just tolerate you coming in and out occasionally
for--well, say a month. If you can make a friend of me in that
time so much the better for you. If you can touch my poor dying
heart even for an instant, I'll bless you, and never forget you.
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