"Oh, if you mean—well, when we moved here from New York, and there was so much—"
"I was right then. You threw it away?"
"If you will control yourself and listen reasonably: yes, your father did leave certain drawings and paintings which were very obviously done to please himself, as you put it. They were—I am sorry, Callista—they were vile. No one could call me a prude, but there are certain limits—"
"Now it's out."
"Callista, I must ask—"
"They were all destroyed, all his visions? Everything beyond the level of, say, the Thursday Society—destroyed? Everything? You didn't save one charcoal sketch, one line drawing, one bit of a doodle on scratch paper? If you did I'll stay, to beg you for it—or steal it if I can. I want nothing else from you, ever, but for one scrap of my father's work I'd go on my knees."
"Callista, you are out of your mind."
"'Mother, for love of grace, lay not that flattering unction to your soul, that not your trespass but my madness speaks.'"
"Oh, this morbid dramatizing, this neurotic—quoting 'Hamlet' at me as if I—are you laughing?"