MRS. ALVING. [Draws her hands away.] No difference! That your father was so infinitely unhappy!
OSWALD. Of course I can pity him, as I would anybody else; but—
MRS. ALVING. Nothing more! Your own father!
OSWALD. [Impatiently.]Oh, "father,"—"father"! I never knew anything of father. I remember nothing about him, except that he once made me sick.
MRS. ALVING. This is terrible to think of! Ought not a son to love his father, whatever happens?
OSWALD. When a son has nothing to thank his father for? has never known him? Do you really cling to that old superstition?—you who are so enlightened in other ways?
MRS. ALVING. Can it be only a superstition—?
OSWALD. Yes; surely you can see that, mother. It's one of those notions that are current in the world, and so—
MRS. ALVING. [Deeply moved.] Ghosts!
OSWALD. [Crossing the room.] Yes; you may call them ghosts.