LAURA. You're going—you're going?
JOHN. Yes.
LAURA. And—and—you never thought that perhaps I'm frail, and weak, and a woman, and that now, maybe, I need your strength, and you might give it to me, and it might be better. I want to lean on you,—lean on you, John. I know I need someone. Aren't you going to let me? Won't you give me another chance?
JOHN. I gave you your chance, Laura.
LAURA. [Throws arms around his neck.] Give me another.
JOHN. But you leaned the wrong way. Good-bye.
[He pulls away and goes out, slamming both doors.
LAURA. [Screaming.] John—John—I—[She sits on trunk, weeping in loud and tearful manner; rises in a dazed fashion, starts to cross, sees gun, utters loud cry of mingled despair and anger, grabs up gun, crossing to bureau, opens up-stage drawer, throws gun in, slams drawer shut, calling:] Annie! Annie!
ANNIE. [Appears through the portières.] Ain't yuh goin' away, Miss
Laura?
LAURA. [Suddenly arousing herself, and with a defiant voice.] No, I'm not. I'm going to stay right here. [ANNIE crosses and opens trunk, takes out handsome dress, hangs it over back of armchair, crosses up to hat-trunk, takes out hat. LAURA takes it from her, crosses to trunk left, starts to unpack it.] Open these trunks, take out those clothes, get me my prettiest dress. Hurry up. [She goes before the mirror.] Get my new hat, dress up my body and paint up my face. It's all they've left of me. [To herself.] They've taken my soul away with them.