ive me sure?

ANNA--[Wearily.] Sure I do. You ain't to blame. You're yust--what you
are--like me.

CHRIS--[Pleadingly.] Den--you lat me kiss you again once?

ANNA--[Raising her face--forcing a wan smile.] Sure. No hard feelings.

CHRIS--[Kisses her--brokenly.] Anna lilla! Ay--[He fights for words to
express himself, but finds none--miserably--with a sob.] Ay can't say
it. Good-night, Anna.

ANNA--Good-night. [He picks up the can of beer and goes slowly into the
room on left, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk forward dejectedly. He
closes the door after him. ANNA turns over the pages of the magazine,
trying desperately to banish her thoughts by looking at the pictures.
This fails to distract her, and flinging the magazine back on the
table, she springs to her feet and walks about the cabin distractedly,
clenching and unclenching her hands. She speaks aloud to herself in a
tense, trembling voice.] Gawd, I can't stand this much longer! What am
I waiting for anyway?--like a damn fool! [She laughs helplessly, then
checks herself abruptly, as she hears the sound of heavy footsteps on
the deck outside. She appears to recognize these and her face lights up
with joy. She gasps:] Mat! [A strange terror seems suddenly to seize
her. She rushes to the table, takes the revolver out of drawer and
crouches down in the corner, left, behind the cupboard. A moment later
the door is flung open and MAT BURKE appears in the doorway. He is in
bad shape--his clothes torn and dirty, covered with sawdust as if he
had been grovelling or sleeping on barroom floors. There is a red
bruise on his forehead over one of his eyes, another over one
cheekbone, his knuckles are skinned and raw--plain evidence of the
fighting he has been through on his "bat." His eyes are bloodshot and
heavy-lidded, his face has a bloated look. But beyond these
appearances--the results of heavy drinking--there is an expression in
his eyes of wild mental turmoil, of impotent animal rage baffled by its
own abject misery.]

BURKE--[Peers blinkingly about the cabin--hoarsely.] Let you not be
hiding from me, whoever's here--though 'tis well you know I'd have a
right to come back and murder you. [He stops to listen. Hearing no
sound, he closes the door behind him and comes forward to the table. He
throws himself into the rocking-chair--despondently.] There's no one
here, I'm thinking, and 'tis a great fool I am to be coming. [With a
sort of dumb, uncomprehending anguish.]