"No, Constance."
"Yes, it was. You needn't mind: it was my fault. I know you all think so and I feel it myself. It was my fault. I can never forget that. I can never forgive myself that."
"Hush, Constance. Really, it's such a long time, such a very long time ago."
"But it will always remain ... a murder."
"You have the future before you now. There's your son...."
"Yes, there's my son. But it has come to this, that I am not living for him, but he for me."
"That is wrong."
"Yes, it's wrong. And my whole life is wrong, everything has gone wrong in my life. Oh, Bertha, I can't tell you how I yearned for Holland and for you all, how I yearned to be no longer alone, alone with my boy! Now, perhaps it will be different: among all of you, I feel at home once more. At home: do you know what that means? If I had remained away, things would never have come right. Now perhaps I can still hope: I really don't know...."
"Alone with your boy? Why don't you speak of your husband?"
"No, not my husband."