WILLIAM. Yes, the clown in the circus…. No … it isn't a clown; … it's our mother…. Yes, I want to see my mother, Annamarie. [Unconsciously WILLIAM comes to the desk and sees the torn picture— picks up a piece and looks at it. Very simply.] Why … there she is!… That's her face.
PETER. Ah! You recognize her. Mother's face is there, William, but it's in little bits. We must put her together, William. We must show her to everybody in the house, so that everybody will say: "How in the world did she ever get here? To whom does this picture belong?" We must set them to thinking.
WILLIAM. Yes. Let us show her to everybody. [He sits and joins the pieces under the guidance of PETER.] Annamarie … Annamarie …
PETER. You remember many things, William … things that happened when you lived with Annamarie, don't you?
WILLIAM. I was very little….
PETER. Still, you remember….
WILLIAM. [Evasively.] I was afraid….
PETER. You loved her.
WILLIAM. [To picture.] Oh, yes … yes, I loved you.
PETER. Now, through that miracle of love, you can remember many things tucked away in your childish brain,—things laid away in your mind like toys upon a shelf. Come, pick them up and dust them off and bring them out again. It will come back. When you lived with Annamarie … there was you … and Annamarie … and—