S. This man's--protection?

AGNES. [Defiantly.] Yes

AMOS. Oh, Mrs. Ebbsmith--!

AGNES. [Pointing to the door.] Well, I've asked you both to leave me,
haven't I! [Pointing at GERTRUDE, who has risen.] The man she loves is
dead and gone! She can moralise--! [Sitting, beating upon the settee
with her hands.] Leave me! [AMOS joins GERTRUDE.]

GERTRUDE. We'll go, Amos. [He takes from his pocket a small
leather-bound book; the cover is well-worn and shabby.]

AMOS. [Writing upon the fly-leaf of the book with a pencil.] I am
writing our address here, Mrs. Ebbsmith.

AGNES. [In a hard voice.] I already have it. [GERTRUDE glances at the
book over AMOS'S shoulder, and looks at him wonderingly.]

AMOS. [Laying the book on the settee by AGNES' side.] You might forget
it. [She stares at the book, with knitted brows, for a moment, then
stretches out her hand and opens it.]

AGNES. [Withdrawing her hand sharply.] No--I don't accept your gift.

AMOS. The address of two friends is upon the fly-leaf.

AGNES. I thank both of you; but you shall never be troubled again by
me. [Rising, pointing to the book.] Take that away! [Sitting facing the
stove, the door of which she opens, replenishing the fire--excitedly.]
Mr. Cleeve may be back soon; it would be disagreeable to you all to
meet again. [GERTRUDE gently pushes AMOS aside, and picking up the book
from the settee, places it upon the table.]

GERTRUDE. [To AGNES, pointing to the book.] This frightens you. Simple
print and paper, so you pretend to regard it; but it frightens you.
[With a quick movement, AGNES twists her chair round and faces GERTRUDE
fiercely.] I called you a mad thing just now. A week ago I did think
you half-mad--a poor, ill-used creature, a visionary, a moral woman
living immorally; yet, in spite of all, a woman to be loved and pitied.
But now I'm beginning to think you're only frail--wanton. Oh, you're
not so mad as not to know you're wicked! [Tapping the book forcibly.]
And so this frightens you.

AGNES. You're right! Wanton! That's what I've become! And I'm in my
right senses, as you say. I suppose I was mad once for a little time,
years ago. And do you know what drove me so? [Striking the book with
her fist.] It was that--that!

GERTRUDE. That!

AGNES. I'd trusted in it, clung to it, and it failed me. Never once did
it stop my ears to the sounds of a curse; when I was beaten it didn't
make the blows a whit lighter; it never healed my bruised flesh,