Julia.
But I won't drink warm wine--so there! That's what gives me these headaches.
Pierre.
Your headaches, I want to tell you, come from the roses. Ugh!--this nasty smell from the withered ones--sour--like stale tobacco smoke--why, it burns the brains out of one's head!
Julia.
See here, dearie, you let the roses alone! That was our agreement, you know--basketsful, every morning! I wish the gardener would bring even more! That's what he's bribed for.--More! More! Always more!
Pierre.
See here, if you were only reasonable----
Julia.
But I'm not reasonable! O you--you-- (She holds out her arms to him. He comes to her. They kiss.) More!--More!--No end!--Ah, to die!----