Part IV, Chapter 20: "Before Breakfast" by Eugene O'Neill

MRS. ROWLAND enters from the bedroom, yawning, her hands still busy putting the finishing touches on a slovenly toilet by sticking hairpins into her hair, which is bunched up in a drab-colored mass on top of her round head.

She is of medium height and inclined to a shapeless stoutness, accentuated by her formless blue dress, shabby and worn.

Her face is characterless, with small regular features and eyes of a nondescript blue.

There is a pinched expression about her eyes and nose and her weak, spiteful mouth.

She ties it about her waist, giving vent to an exasperated "damn" when the knot fails to obey her clumsy fingers.

Suddenly her face brightens as though she had remembered something, and she casts a quick glance at the dish closet; then looks sharply at the bedroom door and listens intently for a moment or so.

At this sound she starts guiltily and looks with sulky defiance at the doorway to the next room.

Her features become more animated, she seems to gather energy, and she looks at the bedroom door with a hard, vindictive smile on her lips.

She moves stealthily over to the open doorway and stands there, out of sight of anyone inside, listening for any movement.

At first her expression is one of hatred and rage, but as she goes on to the end it changes to one of triumphant malignity.

I can't do it all, and I won't do it all. You've got to come to your senses. You've got to beg, borrow, or steal it somewheres. [With a contemptuous laugh.] But where, I'd like to know? You're too proud to beg, and you've borrowed the limit, and you haven't the nerve to steal.

[Somberly.] It's lucky the poor thing was born dead, after all. What a father you'd have been!

[Is silent, brooding moodily for a moment—then she continues with a sort of savage joy.]

[After a pause—puts her hand to her head—fretfully.] My head aches so this morning. It's a shame I've got to go to work in a stuffy room all day in my condition. And I wouldn't if you were half a man.

You even didn't want me to take that tonic I got at the drug store.

Are you still mad at me about that letter? [Defiantly.] Well, I had a right to read it. I'm your wife.

[There is a stifled groan of pain from the next room.]

[Peevishly.] This is a fine life for me to be leading! I won't stand for your loafing any longer.

She stands in the doorway looking down at the floor of the inner room, transfixed with horror.

Then she shrieks wildly and runs to the other door, unlocks it and frenziedly pulls it open, and runs shrieking madly into the outer hallway.