Dr. Thorne (frankly). I hope not.
Cleo (suddenly starting, paces the ashes; throws her arms above her head). I always said you had a Nero in you.... Oh, I understood you—I! But you.... It never occurred to you, I suppose, that you died on my very day? I had been dead three years that night.
Dr. Thorne (more gently). What did you do it for, Cleo? You know I warned you about that habit. You know I took the laudanum away from you.
Cleo. But you could not cork up the Limited Express—could you?
Dr. Thorne. It was a dreadful death! Tell me, how do you fare? Where do you live? Do you suffer? What is your lot?
Cleo (with sudden reserve, and not without dignity) We suicides have our own fate. We bear it. We do not reveal it.
Dr. Thorne (uncomfortably). Well—I must bid you good-morning.
Cleo (savagely). At least, I gained something—if I lose all. Of course, it never dawned on you that this was all my scheme?
Dr. Thorne (in dismay). Your scheme?
Cleo (past control, raves). Oh, I had watched my chance for years. I knew you—your mad moods, your black temper.... Yourself slew yourself, Esmerald Thorne. Your own weakness gave me my opportunity. I waited for my moment. I sat in the buggy beside you.... I sometimes did that when your evil had you. (I couldn’t get there when you were good, you know.) I tried to take the reins. I tried to get the whip—I could not do it. I meant to hit the horse—my arm was held. (There are always so many of these holy busybodies about—angels and messengers of sanctity—to interfere with one!) Oh, then I sprang out—over the wheel into the street. You didn’t see me, but Donna did. When she shied I clung to her bit. And then she bolted.... It was a very simple thing.