Charles. And your papa, delighted at my skill, will give your hand to your preserver.
Clara. How clever you are, Charles! (Noise without.) Go away. Somebody’s coming. (Charles disappears.)
(Enter Twitters.)
Twitters (advancing thoughtfully, aside). I wonder if the brand of Cain is perceptible upon my brow. To think that I should be the cause of all this suffering! That no day may pass without a death which proper investigation might lay at my door! That all my life must be passed with this terrible man. I cannot endure it! (Sits down.)
Clara (approaching him). Why, papa, you look ill.
Twitters. Ill! Yes, this is a wicked world, Clara. I meant to strew your path with roses, to hide from you the villainy—
Hunker (without, shouting). Towels, Twitters.
Clara. O, dear! What is that?
Twitters (rising). It is the voice of fate. (Calling.) Coming, sir.
Clara. What do you mean?