The delicately distorted rail of a spiral staircase winds up
from below._ CLAIRE _is seen through the huge ominous window as if shut
into the tower. She is lying on a seat at the back looking at a book of
drawings. To do this she has left the door of her lantern a little
open--and her own face is clearly seen.
A door is heard opening below; laughing voices,_ CLAIRE _listens, not
pleased._
ADELAIDE: (_voice coming up_) Dear--dear, why do they make such
twisting steps.
HARRY: Take your time, most up now. (HARRY_'s head appears, he looks
back._) Making it all right?
ADELAIDE: I can't tell yet. (_laughingly_) No, I don't think so.
HARRY: (_reaching back a hand for her_) The last lap--is the bad lap.
(ADELAIDE _is up, and occupied with getting her breath._)
HARRY: Since you wouldn't come down, Claire, we thought we'd come up.
ADELAIDE: (_as_ CLAIRE _does not greet her_) I'm sorry to intrude, but I
have to see you, Claire. There are things to be arranged. (CLAIRE
_volunteering nothing about arrangements,_ ADELAIDE _surveys the tower.
An unsympathetic eye goes from the curves to the lines which diverge.
Then she looks from the window_) Well, at least you have a view.
HARRY: This is the first time you've been up here?
ADELAIDE: Yes, in the five years you've had the house I was never asked
up here before.
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