Gil. A rough draft? Those letters which seemed to have been dashed off in such tremendous haste. "Just one word, dearest, before I go to bed. My eyelids are heavy—" and when your eyelids were closed you wrote the whole thing over again.
Marg. Are you piqued about it?
Gil. I might have expected as much. I ought to be glad, however, that they weren't bought from a professional love-letter writer. Oh, how everything begins to crumble! The whole past is nothing but a heap of ruins. She made a rough draft of her letters!
Marg. Be content. Maybe my letters will be all that will remain immortal of your memory.
Gil. And along with them will remain the fatal story.
Marg. Why?
Gil. [indicating his book]. Because they also appear in my book.
Marg. In where?
Gil. In my novel.
Marg. What?