DICK: But what's the point in destroying it, Claire?
CLAIRE: (impatiently) I've told you. It cannot create.
DICK: But you say you can go on producing it, and it's interesting in form.
CLAIRE: And you think I'll stop with that? Be shut in—with different life—that can't creep on? (after trying to put destroying hands upon it) It's hard to—get past what we've done. Our own dead things—block the way.
TOM: But you're doing it this next time, Claire, (nodding to the inner room.) In there!
CLAIRE: (turning to that room) I'm not sure.
TOM: But you told me Breath of Life has already produced itself. Doesn't that show it has brought life from the life it left?
CLAIRE: But timidly, rather—wistfully. A little homesick. If it is less sure this time, then it is going back to—Miss Lane. But if the pattern's clearer now, then it has made friends of life that waits. I'll know to-morrow.
ELIZABETH: You know, something tells me this is wrong.
CLAIRE: The hymn-singing ancestors are tuning up.