BARLOW. Quite true, Gerald, dear. It is a sanctum the world
cannot invade--unlike all other sanctuaries, I am afraid.
GERALD. By the way, Oliver--to go back to profanities--the colliers
really are coming out in support of the poor, ill-used clerks.
MR. BARLOW. No, no, Gerald--no, no! Don't be such an alarmist. Let
us leave these subjects before the ladies. No, no: the clerks will
have their increase quite peacefully.
GERALD. Yes, dear father--but they can't have it peacefully now.
We've been threatened already by the colliers--we've already received
an ultimatum.
MR. BARLOW. Nonsense, my boy--nonsense! Don't let us split words.
You won't go against the clerks in such a small matter. Always avoid
trouble over small matters. Don't make bad feeling--don't make bad
blood.
MRS. BARLOW. The blood is already rotten in the neighbourhood. What
it needs is letting out. We need a few veins opening, or we shall
have mortification setting in. The blood is black.
MR. BARLOW. We won't accept your figure of speech literally, dear.
No, Gerald, don't go to war over trifles.
GERALD. It's just over trifles that one must make war, father. One
can yield gracefully over big matters. But to be bullied over trifles
is a sign of criminal weakness.
MR. BARLOW. Ah, not so, not so, my boy. When you are as old as I am,
you will know the comparative insignificance of these trifles.
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