“What is it, dear?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. To look at me and say, ‘Arthur, I don’t really like this at all. I hate this house. I hate being smooth and perfect. I hate my mother for what she did to me, making me like this—’”
“Don’t!” she cries.
“‘And I hate my daughter for what I am making of her. I hate her when she looks like her father—’”
“No! No!”
“‘And I want to die when I realize that I am getting more and more like all of them, all the time.’ Go on, Alice. Say it.”
She shakes her head slowly, and weeps. “I can’t.”
“Say it!” you repeat. “I—Alice, I made you cry, didn’t I? Never mind. Say it.”
“No. The one thing you can never——” she cries convulsively.
“What is it, dearest?”