)
CRAVEN. What's the matter, Paramore?
JULIA. Are you ill?
CUTHBERTSON. No bad news, I hope?
PARAMORE (despairingly). The worst of news! Terrible news! Fatal news!
My disease--
CRAVEN (quickly). Do you mean my disease?
PARAMORE (fiercely). I mean my disease--Paramore's disease--the
disease I discovered--the work of my life. Look here (pointing to the
B. M. J. with a ghastly expression of horror.) If this is true, it was
all a mistake: there is no such disease. (Cuthbertson and Julia look
at one another, hardly daring to believe the good news.)
CRAVEN (in strong remonstrance). And you call this bad news! Now
really, Paramore--
PARAMORE (cutting him short hoarsely). It's natural for you to think
only of yourself. I don't blame you: all invalids are selfish. Only a
scientific man can feel what I feel now. (Writhing under a sense of
intolerable injustice.) It's the fault of the wickedly sentimental
laws of this country. I was not able to make experiments enough--only
three dogs and a monkey. Think of that, with all Europe full of my
professional rivals--men burning to prove me wrong! There is freedom
in France--enlightened republican France.
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