Put more bluntly, what O'Neill was saying here is: You have to lie.
"At least a drug dealer gives an addict something tangible for his or her money," O'Neill says.
O'Neill—like Williams in this regard—is just one of those playwrights that nothing came between his heart and his pen.
It's Tip O'Neill's famous axiom in reverse: now all politics is national.
A resident of Pacifica, California, O'Neill spends her spare time reading Hemingway, growing vegetables, and rock climbing.
The old O'Neill, instead of being irritated, saw in this exploit a proof of commendable energy.
Bud, trembling, hoped it might be O'Neill, and staggered to the archway.
Presently they heard Mrs. O'Neill calling, but they just sat still, stifling their giggles.
This junction O'Neill was determined to defeat, and did defeat it;—but let us not anticipate.
O'Neill ran back to tell his comrades and as he arrived a big shell fell just outside the cellar.