C's. M. They send him back to me, bereft of both! My CONRAD! What?—repulse a Mother's Arms!
Con. (with chilling composure). Yes, Madam, for between us ever more, a barrier invisible is raised, and should I strive to reach those arms again, two spectral thumbs would press me coldly back—the thumbs I sucked, in blissful ignorance, the thumbs that solaced me in solitude, the thumbs your County Council took from me, and your endearments scarcely will replace! Where, Madam, lay the harm in sucking them? The dog will lick his foot, the cat her claw, his paws sustain the hibernating bear—and you decree no law to punish them! Yet, in your rage for infantine reform, you rushed this most ridiculous enactment—its earliest victim your neglected son!
C's. M. (falling at his feet). Say, CONRAD, you will some day pardon me?
Con. (bitterly, as he regards his maimed hands.) I will,—the day these pollards send forth shoots!
[His Mother turns aside with a heartbroken wail; CONRAD standing apart in gloomy estrangement as the Curtain descends.
