George. [Disturbed.] I expect I talked an awful lot of rot. People always do, I believe.
Daisy. [Passionately.] You used to call me, "Daisy, Daisy," as though your heart was breaking. And when I leaned over you and said: "I'm here," you would take my face in your hands so that I could hardly believe you weren't conscious. And you said: "I love you."
George. Oh, God!
Daisy. And sometimes I didn't know how to calm you. You were frantic because you thought they were taking me away from you. "I can't bear it," you said, "I shall die." I had to put my hands over your mouth so that no one should hear.
George. I didn't know what I was saying. I wasn't myself. It was just the madness of the fever.
Daisy. And sometimes you were so exquisitely tender. Your voice was soft and caressing. And you called me by sweet names so that the tears ran down my cheeks. You thought you held me in your arms and you pressed me to your heart. You were happy then; you were so happy that I was afraid you'd die of it. I know what love is and you love me.
George. For God's sake, stop. Why do you torture me?
Daisy. And then you were madly jealous. You hated Harry. I think you could have killed him.
George. That's not true. That's infamous. Never. Never.
Daisy. Oh, you can say that with your lips! Sometimes you thought he put his arms round me and kissed me and you sobbed aloud. Oh, it was so painful. I forgot that you were unconscious and I took your hands and said: "He's not here. You and I are alone, alone, alone." And sometimes I think you understood. You fell back. And a look of peace came on your face as if you were in heaven and you said—do you know what you said? You said: "Beloved, beloved, beloved."