Twitters. Yes, yes. (Aside.) If the doctor should discover poisoning! If it should be traced to me!
Clara (faintly). Dr. Squillcox—the other one’s away.
Mother (without). Where is Twitters? I will see him. (Enter Mother.)
Mother. You are here—I entered the hushed chamber where all that was mortal of the sainted Elijah Paddy was lying—
Twitters. Don’t talk of death.
Mother. Overcome by emotion, I averted my head, and blindly removing the brown paper wrapping, I placed upon the heart of the departed what I thought to be a floral tribute—a lovely anchor, expressive of hope and christian resignation—
Twitters. Can’t you see that poor Clara is ill? Be still, woman.
Mother. Who insults me by calling me woman? I stood with averted face. A stir of excitement thrilled the hushed and weeping assembly as my offering was seen. Touched by this appreciation of my tribute, I turned to take a last view of all that was earthly of the departed—there, amid a heap of roses and camellias lay those odious boots. (Pulling them from under her cloak, holding them at arm’s length and throwing them down.) Without a word I fled. I am undone forever.
Twitters. Say no more of boots. Look at my suffering child and hold your peace.
Mother. I need no word from you to succor my departed Sarah’s child (walking towards the couch. She snatches at Twitters’ hand). Your allopathic doses are killing her (producing phial). These pellets will cure her (starts to give Clara pills).