_) Poor Arthur! He will be sorry--perhaps he will understand
a little now. (_She pours the contents of the bottle into the cup._)
The Black Cat had a friend; I am not so fortunate. It is a survival
of the fittest, I suppose. The world was made for the sleek and
treacherous. (_She replaces the bottle in the cupboard, then
returns, and lays the keys on the table._) Yes, my little Undine,
mother is tired too--so tired! Oh, sleep, sleep! If it were but
eternal sleep--if I could be _sure_ I should never wake again! No
more life. And yet I want to live. Oh, my God, I want to live!
(_Paces to and fro, mechanically putting things in order; sees
Undine's handkerchief on the ground, and picks it up._) Undine's
little handkerchief, still wet with her tears--the last human thing
on the brink of the abyss. Poor little rag; it will give me courage
to face the darkness. (_Kisses it, and thrusts it into her bosom,
then goes back to the table._) Perhaps I _do_ think too much of
things--even of death. And now! (_Takes up the cup and shudders._)
Who said "Poor Constance"? (_Puts it down again, and presses her
hands to her ears._) There are voices in my brain--voices that burn
like the flames of hell.
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