It is playing
languorously the Barcarole; they become conscious of this--they do not
want to be touched by the love song._)
CLAIRE: Don't listen. That's nothing. This isn't that, (_fearing_) I
tell you--it isn't that. Yes, I know--that's amorous--enclosing. I
know--a little place. This isn't that, (_her arms going around him--all
the lure of 'that' while she pleads against it as it comes up to them_)
We will come out--to radiance--in far places (_admitting, using_) Oh,
then let it be that! Go with it. Give up--the otherness. I will! And in
the giving up--perhaps a door--we'd never find by searching. And if it's
no more--than all have known, I only say it's worth the allness! (_her
arms wrapped round him_) My love--my love--let go your pride in
loneliness and let me give you joy!
TOM: (_drenched in her passion, but fighting_) It's _you_. (_in
anguish_) You rare thing untouched--not--not into this--not back into
this--by me--lover of your apartness.
(_She steps back. She sees he cannot. She stands there, before what she
wanted more than life, and almost had, and lost. A long moment. Then she
runs down the stairs._)
CLAIRE: (_her voice coming up_) Harry! Choke that phonograph! If you
want to be lewd--do it yourselves! You tawdry things--you cheap little
lewd cowards, (_a door heard opening below_) Harry! If you don't stop
that music, I'll kill myself.
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