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 scorn.] Or, no—it was little Eyolf. Little Eyolf, my dear! Eyolf? Yes, you used to call her Eyolf, did you not? I seem to remember your telling me so—once, in a moment of confidence. [Coming up to him.] Do you remember it—that entrancingly beautiful hour, Alfred? [Recoiling, as if in horror.] I remember nothing! I will not remember! [Following him.] It was in that hour—when your other little Eyolf was crippled for life! [In a hollow voice, supporting himself against the table.] Retribution! [Menacingly.] Yes, retribution! [ and ''return by way of the boat-shed. She is carrying some water-lilies in her hand.''

[With self-control.] Well, Asta, have you and Mr. Borgheim talked things thoroughly over?