On the by-pass.
MRS. BRAMSON: Just the nice ripe sort of place for mischief, it always
looked to me. All those lanterns.... What's his character, the good-
for-nothing scoundrel?
DORA: Oh, he's nice, really. He done the wrong thing by me, but he's
all right, if you know what I mean....
MRS. BRAMSON: No, I don't. Where does he come from?
DORA: He's sort of Welsh, I think. 'E's been to sea, too. He's funny,
of course. Ever so open. Baby-face they call him. Though I never seem
to get 'old of what 'e's thinking, somehow--
MRS. BRAMSON: I'll get hold of what he's thinking, all right. I've had
my knife into that sort ever since I was a girl.
DORA: Oh, mum, if I got him to let you speak to him--d'you think I
could stay on?
MRS. BRAMSON (_after a pause): If_ he marries you at once.
DORA: Shall I--(_Eagerly_) As a matter of fact, ma'am, he's gone
on a message on his bicycle to Payley Hill this morning, and he said he
might pop in to see me on the way back--
MRS. BRAMSON: That's right; nothing like visitors to brighten your
mornings, eh? I'll deal with him.
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