SCHÖN. (His hand on the door.) Look before you, my dear sir.
ESCHERICH. Now if you will have the kindness to open the door— (Schön opens it. Escherich lets book and pencil fall, clutches at his hair.) Merciful Heaven! God!!
SCHÖN. Look it all over carefully.
ESCHERICH. I can't look at it!
SCHÖN. (Snorting scornfully.) Then what did you come here for?
ESCHERICH. To—to cut up—to cut up his throat with a razor!
SCHÖN. Have you seen it all?
ESCHERICH. That must feel—
SCHÖN. (Draws the door to, steps to the writing-table.) Sit down. Here is paper and pen. Write.
ESCHERICH. (Mechanically taking his seat.) I can't write—