Margaret. How can you ask? I love you, and you alone. Much as I have seen, much as I have observed, I have felt nothing—I waited for you.
Clement. Then bring it here, your novel.
Margaret. Bring it here? How do you mean?
Clement. That you felt you had to write it—may be; but at least no one shall read it. Bring it here—we'll throw it in the fire.
Margaret. Clement ...!
Clement. I ask that much of you—I have a right to ask it.
Margaret. Oh, it isn't possible! It's ...
Clement. Not possible! When I wish it—when I explain that I make everything else dependent on it ... you understand me ... it may perhaps turn out to be possible.
Margaret. But, Clement, it's already printed.
Clement. What—printed?