The Dove—Yes?
Vera—Yes. We say this little thing in French and that little thing in Spanish, and we collect knives and pistols, but we only shoot our buttons off with the guns and cut our darning cotton with the knives, and we’ll never, never be perverse though our entire education has been about knees and garters and pinches on hindquarters—elegantly bestowed—, and we keep a few animals—very badly—hoping to see something first-hand—and our beds are as full of yellow pages and French jokes as a bird’s nest is full of feathers— God! [she stands up abruptly] little one, why do I wear lace at my elbows?
The Dove—You have pretty arms.
Vera—Nonsense! Lace swinging back and forth like that, tickling my arms, well, that’s not beauty——
The Dove—I know.
Vera—[Returning to her couch.] I sometimes wonder what you do know, you are such a strange happening, anyway. Well then, tell me what you think of me and what you think of my sister, you have been here long enough. Why do you stay? Do you love us?
The Dove—I love something that you have.
Vera—What?
The Dove—Your religious natures.
Vera—Good heavens!