Close air? Here—with me?
Erhart.
Yes, here with you, mother.
Ella Rentheim.
Then come with me, Erhart.
Erhart.
Oh, Aunt Ella, it’s not a whit better with you. It’s different, but no better—no better for me. It smells of rose-leaves and lavender there too; it is as airless there as here.
Mrs. Borkman.
[Shaken, but having recovered her composure with an effort.] Airless in your mother’s room, you say!
Erhart.