CONFESSOR. Hadn't I prepared you for the fact that the way to the white house up there would be long and difficult.
STRANGER. I don't deny it. How far have we come?
CONFESSOR. Five hundred yards. We've still got fifteen hundred.
STRANGER. But where's the sun?
CONFESSOR. Up there, above the clouds....
STRANGER. Then we shall have to go through them?
CONFESSOR. Yes. Of course.
STRANGER. What are those patients doing there? What a company! And why are their hands so red?
CONFESSOR. For both our sakes I want to avoid using impure words, so I'll speak in pleasant riddles, which you, as a writer, will understand.
STRANGER. Yes. Speak beautifully. There's so much that's ugly here.