_) Blanche! Blanche!
Look here! Is she--?
Mrs. Tremaine.
She has fainted--let me--!
Denham.
(_throws himself down beside the couch and puts his finger on her
wrist_) Oh my God! Dead! Dead!
Mrs. Tremaine.
No, no, no! It is too terrible! Let us try if----(_Attempts to open
dress, then recoils in horror._) And I had begun to hate her--yes,
to _hate_ her. My poor good Constance!
Denham.
But how--? (_Rising._) _Is_ she dead, Blanche?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_mastering her agitation_) Yes, dear, dead! She has taken poison.
See here! (_Picks up the cup._) What a horrible death! Her face is
awful!
Denham.
Oh, Constance, why did I leave you? I had a vague fear of
something--but not this! (_Throws himself down again, and stoops to
kiss her._) Ha! Prussic acid! No help! No hope! Yet she is warm.
(_He starts up._) Could we--? But death is a matter of seconds with
that infernal stuff. Blanche, Blanche, I have killed her!
Mrs. Tremaine.
I claim my share in the guilt.
Denham.
No, no. Leave me! Let the dead bury their dead!
Mrs. Tremaine.
If you wish me to leave you, dear, I will go.
Denham.
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