three inches for each set of tracks; a space of four feet
LEVER. [Impassively.] Ah! and what did I say that was so very dreadful?
JOY. You're a--a--you 're a--coward!
MRS. GWYN. [With a sort of groan.] Joy!
LEVER. [Stepping up to JOY, and standing with his hands behind him-- in a low voice.] Now hit me in the face--hit me--hit me as hard as you can. Go on, Joy, it'll do you good.
[Joy raises her clenched hand, but drops it, and hides her face.]
Why don't you? I'm not pretending!
Come, joy; you'll make yourself ill, and that won't help, will it?
[With determination.] What's the matter? now come--tell me!
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