Miss Fitton:
[Seats herself at the spinet.] Why did you write that—“to make us seek ruin and love those that hate”?
Shakespeare
I fear you don’t love me as I love you; sometimes, even——
Miss Fitton:
I don’t hate you, or I shouldn’t be here, should I?
[Hums the words, “fever and pain,” playing the tune.]
Shakespeare:
How I envy even the dead things about you; the dress your body warms, the bracelets that clip your wrists; even the jacks that leap to kiss the tender inward of your hand.
Miss Fitton: