HADDA PADDA. The dandelion is slipping out of the bag. Grant the dandelion its life.
HERBORIST. I can't grant the dandelion its life. Perhaps to-morrow a mother will come with her little girl. "Rid her of her warts," she will say, "for her hands are so fine."...
HADDA PADDA [takes the dandelion in her hands]. Grant the dandelion its life. Do you see how it stretches its thousand delicate fingers to the fading light? If you plant it again, it will close up and be silent a whole night with joy.
HERBORIST. You are silent and you don't smile—is it with joy?
HADDA PADDA. You must not ask me that.
HERBORIST. Smile, and I will grant the dandelion its life.
HADDA PADDA. Now I am smiling.
HERBORIST [thrusts her hand into the bag]. Tell me of your joy, young woman. Each time you give an answer you grant a flower its life.—
Of all things,—what is the softest you have ever felt?
HADDA PADDA. The hair on my cheek when my lover stroked it.