STRANGER. Fearfully. Some fool has restrung my nerves out of tune, and plays on them with a horse-hair bow till he sets my teeth on edge.... You don't know what that is! There's someone here who's stronger than I! Someone with a searchlight who shines it at me, wherever I may be. Do they use the black art in this place?
LADY. Don't turn your back on the sunlight. Look at this lovely country; you'll feel calmer.
STRANGER. I can't bear that poorhouse. It seems to have been built there solely for me. And a demented woman always stands there beckoning.
LADY. Do you think they treat you badly here?
STRANGER. In a way, no. They feed me with tit-bits, as if I were to be fattened for the butcher. But I can't eat because they grudge it me, and I feel the cold rays of their hate. To me it seems there's an icy wind everywhere, although it's still and hot. And I can hear that accursèd mill....
LADY. It's not grinding now.
STRANGER. Yes. Grinding... grinding.
LADY. Listen. There's no hate here. Pity, at most.
STRANGER. Another thing.... Why do people I meet cross themselves?
LADY. Only because they're used to praying in silence. (Pause.) You had an unwelcome letter this morning?