A
pause. They look, almost afraid_. DORA _moves to the back of the
table._
MRS. TERENCE (_as_ OLIVIA _lifts it gingerly_): A dirty shirt ...
HUBERT: That's all right.
OLIVIA: A clean pair of socks ... packet of razor-blades ...
HUBERT: We shouldn't be doing this--I feel as if I were at school
again--
MRS. TERENCE: Singlet ...
OLIVIA: Half ticket to Shepperley Palais de Danse ...
MRS. TERENCE: Oh, it's a proper 'aunt!
DORA: Oh, 'ere's a pocket-book. With a letter.
(_She gives the letter to_ MRS. TERENCE _and the pocket-book
to_ OLIVIA.)
HUBERT: Look here, this is going a bit too far--you can't do this to a
chap--
MRS. TERENCE (_taking the letter from the envelope_): Don't be
silly, dear, your wife'll do it to you 'undreds of times....
(_Sniffing the note-paper_) Pooh.... (_Reading, as they crane
over her shoulder_) "Dear Baby-Face my own ..." Signed Lil....
OLIVIA: What awful writing....
MRS. TERENCE (_reading, heavily_): "... Next time you strike
Newcastle, O.K. by me, baby...." Ooh!
HUBERT: Just another servant-girl.
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