Margaret. What is it in me? There’s a thing I can’t do. I can’t see such pain.
Gray. [Hoarsely] Do you think I can’t suffer?
Margaret. I am you. But he—he’s so defenceless. It’s vivisection—like cutting a dumb beast about to make me well. I can’t do it. I’d rather die of my cancer.
Gray. [The storm breaking] Die then—you fool—you fool!
Sydney descends another step. The cloak slides from her hands on to the baluster.
Gray. [Without expression] Good-bye.
Margaret. [Blindly] Forgive—
Gray. How can I?
Margaret. I would you—
Gray. D’you think I bear you malice? It’s not I. Why, to deny me, that’s a little thing. I’ll not go under because you’re faithless. But what you’re doing is the sin without forgiveness. You’re denying—not me—but life. You’re denying the spirit of life. You’re denying—you’re denying your mate.