Lady S. The streets, the squares, the river;
No home to go to! Wandering in the night
I saw your windows lit, and knew: I knew
You plotted here. What will you do? You're not
About to send me anywhere! I'll die;
I mean to die. I wanted Tristram too;
But I can die alone: time—give me time!
It's hard, it's very hard: you wish me gone,
And cannot understand how hard it is:
I have no children, and my husband hates me.
St. J. You have your children.
Lady S. Mock me not with that:
You know as well as I that death ends all.
St. J. Nothing can end. The mystery Matter, lasts
For ever.
Lady S. Am I mad, indeed, or you?
What are you talking of? My soul—my soul
It is, that's up in arms against the world.
St. J. If death ends all, what is the soul?
Lady S. My soul
Is me, one aching nerve from head to foot.
St. J. How is it clad, your soul? What atmosphere
Environs it, wherein does it consist?
Lady S. Naked my soul is; and it cannot breathe
For lack of air; and it consists in sin.
St. J. In sin?