Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 11).djvu/125



[With sarcasm.] Yes, isn't it curious that we should grieve like this over a little stranger boy?

[With an outburst.] Oh, don't call him a stranger!

[Sadly shaking her head.] We never won the boy, Alfred. Not I—nor you either.

[Wringing his hands.] And now it is too late! Too late!

And no consolation anywhere—in anything.

[With sudden passion.] You are the guilty one in this!

[Rising.] I!

Yes, you! It was your fault that he became—what he was! It was your fault that he could not save himself when he fell into the water.

[With a gesture of repulsion.] Alfred—you shall not throw the blame upon me!