LEONARD. Never mind me. Could you believe that I care more about writing my own way than for anything?
MARY. I suppose it’s good to care for something but that seems selfish.
LEONARD. You’re beginning to feel a bit of resentment. You don’t hate me yet, do you?
MARY. No, of course not.
LEONARD. I shouldn’t blame you. You’re a wonderfully even-tempered person. I sometimes wonder whether I’m right about that streak of wildness in you. Do you think you could do strange things—what shall I say—wicked things?
MARY. I’ve done one wicked thing.
LEONARD. Does it trouble you, Mary? Does it still trouble you? Would you alter it?
MARY. Then I shouldn’t have little Leonard. I can never understand. If I’d known of him—if I’d thought of little Leonard—then it couldn’t be wrong. But how could I think of him when he wasn’t born? It was wicked. It wasn’t like me.
LEONARD. You did think of him, Mary. No, you didn’t think. It’s not thought. It was nature—something bigger than you—forcing you—forcing you to bring little Leonard into the world. Now, take comfort in that, my girl; there is some comfort in it.