To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
After life’s fitful fever they sleep well
And like this insubstantial bourne from which
No traveller returns
Leave not a wrack behind.
[Walpole is about to speak, but B. B., suddenly and vehemently proceeding, extinguishes him.]
Out, out, brief candle:
For nothing canst thou to damnation add
The readiness is all.
WALPOLE [gently; for B. B.’s feeling, absurdly expressed as it is, is too sincere and humane to be ridiculed] Yes, B. B. Death makes people go on like that. I dont know why it should; but it does. By the way, what are we going to do? Ought we to clear out; or had we better wait and see whether Mrs Dubedat will come back?