SCENE.--_Same as Acts I. and II._
_Same day as Act III._
[_Upon the curtain rising, MISS WOODWARD is discovered at the desk. A
luncheon gong is immediately heard. MISS WOODWARD looks up and listens
for a moment, then shrugs her shoulders and resumes her work. She
opens a drawer of the desk, glances at its contents, and then
writes._]
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Writing._] Drawer four. Reviews favourable of "Harvey Masterton." In
top corner, tied in bundle, reviews unfavourable. [_She closes and
locks that drawer and unlocks another, into which she looks.
Writing._] Drawer five. Proof sheets of new novel corrected to page
180. At back, accounts with publishers. [_The luncheon gong is struck
again. She opens another drawer, looks into it for a moment, turns
over its contents, then shrugs her shoulders and writes._] A variety
of photographs of Mrs. Parbury and two packets of letters marked
"Private." How touching! [_She closes the drawer with a bang, and
opens another._]
_Enter EVANS, L._
EVANS.
[C.] Excuse me, Miss, but have you heard the luncheon gong?
MISS WOODWARD.
Yes, thank you.
EVANS.
It's been struck twice, specially for you, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
Who told you to strike it the second time?
EVANS.
Mr. Parbury, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
And who sent you now?
EVANS.
Mrs. Parbury asked me to tell you they're at lunch. They're the only
words that's been spoken since they sat down. It's rather trying to
the nerves, Miss, waiting on people that only open their mouths to
eat.
MISS WOODWARD.
You will please say that I don't wish any lunch.
EVANS.
Yes, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
Has Emma packed my things?
EVANS.
She's packing them now, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Glancing at an A.B.C. which is on the desk._] Will you please order
a cab for me at--let me see--[_consulting the book_]--four-twenty--say
at half-past three.
EVANS.
Yes, Miss. Excuse me, Miss, but we're all very sorry you're
going--particularly cook. Cook's very strong in her attachments.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Looking into a drawer._] It's very kind of cook.
EVANS.
Cook's words was, "This'll be a dull 'ouse when the little sunbeam's
gone."
MISS WOODWARD.
That will do, Evans.
EVANS.
Excuse me, Miss, it was meant kindly. We was all on your side in this
embroglo.
[_A pause. MISS WOODWARD is obstinately silent, and goes on working._
EVANS.
Can't I get you something, Miss?
MISS WOODWARD.
Yes; ask cook to kindly make me a sandwich, and I'll have a glass of
beer.
EVANS.
Sandwich of mutton or 'am, Miss?
MISS WOODWARD.
Ham, please. [_Exit EVANS, L._] It's sure to be cold mutton to-night.
[_She writes._] Old manuscripts. [_Closes drawer._] There, that's all
in order for him. [_Rises._] I know there are some books of mine here.
I may as well have them. [_Goes towards book-shelves, but stops when
she comes to the occasional table on which is the photo of MR.
PARBURY. She stretches out her hand and takes the photograph gingerly.
Then she looks round to see if she is observed, with to herself an
affectation of fear._] Poor thing! Was it outraged by a kiss! What a
shame! But it's all right now! [_Puts it back with care._] No one
shall hurt it. It's perfectly safe--perfectly safe. [_She goes to
book-shelf._] Keats--mine. [_Takes a volume._] Matthew Arnold--mine.
_Enter EVANS with sandwiches, beer, &c., on a small tray, which he
places on the desk._
Jane Eyre--mine. I think that's all. [_Brings the books down and
places them on desk._] Thank you, Evans.
[_She sits._
EVANS.
Cook thought you would care for that piece of cake, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
I would. Thank cook for me.
EVANS.
Yes, Miss. [_He goes to door._] There's still a hominous silence at
the lunch-table, Miss.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Taking a sandwich._] That's all right, Evans. [_Exit EVANS, L._]
After all, one must have food. [_She takes a respectable bite out of a
sandwich._] And who could over-estimate the consolations of
literature? [_Opens a book and reads._]
"Is the calm thine of stoic souls who weigh
Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore,
But in disdainful silence turn away,
Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?"
Yes, Mr. Arnold, it is.
[_Takes another bite of a sandwich._
_Enter MRS. PARBURY, L._
MRS. PARBURY.
Why won't you come to lunch, Miss Woodward. But oh, I see you're
having something here.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_For a moment slightly confused._] I--I--[_Drinks some of her
beer_]--I have a railway journey before me.
[_She rises._
MRS. PARBURY.
All the more reason you should come and lunch properly.
MISS WOODWARD.
You are very kind, but I am in no mood for merriment.
MRS. PARBURY.
Merriment!
MISS WOODWARD.
Aren't you all merry? I'm so sorry. I thought it would be all right
now that I'm going away.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'm afraid that won't make any difference. You speak as though you
thought you had a grievance against me.
MISS WOODWARD.
Oh no; I suppose it's the other way about.
MRS. PARBURY.
Perhaps it ought to be, but somehow I don't feel it acutely. I feel
only a dull pain. It's a terrible thing, Miss Woodward, for a young
married woman to suddenly realise that her happiness is gone. I feel
that I have aged many years in the last few hours.
MISS WOODWARD.
So do I. I'm sadder, but healthier.
[_Finishes the beer._
MRS. PARBURY.
It's so much worse for me.
MISS WOODWARD.
Oh, of course our own troubles are always the worst. That is what has
been called "The vanity of grief."
MRS. PARBURY.
Well, Miss Woodward, I'll say good-bye. I bear you no ill-will
now--really I don't; and I shall always be glad to hear that you are
doing well, although naturally under the circumstances I can hold out
no hopes of your coming back here.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_In amazement._] You, Mrs. Parbury, hold out hopes of my returning
here! Do you think there is enough money in the Bank of England to
induce me to do that?
MRS. PARBURY.
I didn't mean it unkindly. I was only trying to say a nice womanly
thing, and to show you that I didn't blame you so much for falling in
love with my husband.
MISS WOODWARD.
I never did.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, Miss Woodward, you know I saw you here. [_Pointing to PARBURY'S
photograph._] It was the greatest shock of my life.
MISS WOODWARD.
You mean I kissed his photograph?
MRS. PARBURY.
You know you did.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_With a little laugh._] I suppose I did.
MRS. PARBURY.
Then how can you say----
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Gravely._] It was a motherly kiss.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Turning away._] It seems impossible to talk with you. I used to
think you a serious-minded person.
MISS WOODWARD.
Please don't go, Mrs. Parbury, I'm quite serious. I'd like to explain.
I think I owe it to you.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Turning._] Well?
MISS WOODWARD.
You will let me be quite frank?
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh, I shall like it.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'll take the risk. [_Comes down L., sits on sofa._] Go on, please.
MISS WOODWARD.
The interest which I began to take in Mr. Parbury sprang in a way from
what has been called the maternal instinct.
MRS. PARBURY.
If you go through the world exercising your maternal instinct on other
women's husbands, Miss Woodward, you'll end badly.
MISS WOODWARD.
I don't propose doing so. I'm going home to try it on my sisters.
MRS. PARBURY.
If you had known anything of life, you would have seen that I had
sufficient of the maternal instinct for the needs of my husband.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm very, very sorry; please don't be angry, but I didn't think it
found the right expression. It was very impudent of me, I know.
MRS. PARBURY.
Very.
MISS WOODWARD.
It seemed to me that you smoothed his hair when he'd rather it was
rough, and roughed it when he'd rather it was smooth. [_Demurely._] I
think that expresses what I mean. I have a beastly sly way of noticing
everything, and I began to feel sorry for Mr. Parbury. And being quite
as egotistical as most girls, I began to think I should have made him
a better wife than you.
MRS. PARBURY.
Oh.
[_Rises._
MISS WOODWARD.
Perhaps in the remotest corner of my heart I think so still.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Indignant._] Well?
MISS WOODWARD.
But I never loved him--never in the least degree.
[_MRS. PARBURY, during the foregoing, has listened with anger
gathering in her face, but at the end, after an apparent momentary
struggle with herself, she bursts into laughter._
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm glad you're not angry.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Still laughing._] It's impossible to be angry. And so because you
thought his wife bored him, you gave his photograph a nice motherly
kiss. That was very sweet of you, I'm sure.
MISS WOODWARD.
It was well meant, Mrs. Parbury; and you must always remember that I
didn't know you were looking.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Laughing, sits on sofa._] Why do you make me laugh when you must
know that my heart is breaking--that I have lost my happiness for
ever. [_Pause. She begins to laugh again. Rises._] And I thought you a
designing hussy, when you are only a very quaint and harmless girl.
[_Laughs._
_Enter GUNNING, L.; keeps the door open._
GUNNING.
I'm afraid I'm in the way.
MRS. PARBURY.
Not at all. We have said all we had to say to each other. Oh, how that
girl has made me laugh!
[_Exit MRS. PARBURY, L., laughing. GUNNING shuts the door._
MISS WOODWARD.
Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.
[_Gathering her books together._
GUNNING.
I want a little talk with you.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm sorry I can't give you the time,
GUNNING.
Oh yes, you will, Miss Woodward.
MISS WOODWARD.
Indeed? I admit my position is a lowly one, but that doesn't lessen
your presumption.
[_Goes towards the door._
GUNNING.
[_With conviction._] You won't go.
MISS WOODWARD.
But I will.
GUNNING.
My dear Miss Woodward, believe me, you will not.
MISS WOODWARD.
You don't propose using force, I suppose?
GUNNING.
No; I think you would like me to, but unfortunately this is not our
house, and one must observe the convenances.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Going to door, L._] Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.
GUNNING.
Moral force will detain you.
MISS WOODWARD.
What moral force, pray?
[_Turning._
GUNNING.
Curiosity. You know you are dying to know what I have to say.
MISS WOODWARD.
Indeed I am not.
GUNNING.
Oh yes, you are. And further, a certain womanly graciousness will
prevent your going. You are saying to yourself, "Mr. Gunning has
evinced a genuine interest in me. It would be cattish of me to refuse
him a few minutes' talk."
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Slowly comes to sofa and puts her books down._] I certainly don't
wish to be cattish.
GUNNING.
Of course not.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Sits on sofa._] And anyway I want to eat my piece of cake. Will you
pass it, please? [_He passes the plate._] Thank you. I hope you won't
mind my eating.
GUNNING.
Not at all. I like it.
MISS WOODWARD.
Not that I fear it would make any difference if you did.
GUNNING.
No, certainly not. Go on being natural, please. [_Pause. He watches
her nibbling the cake._] Shall I ring for a fresh piece?
MISS WOODWARD.
No, thank you. I'm used to this piece now. [_She glances up at him._]
You needn't be disconcerted, Mr. Gunning.
GUNNING.
I'm not a bit.
MISS WOODWARD.
You look it a little.
GUNNING.
Do I?
MISS WOODWARD.
And you know you didn't detain me here to watch me eating cake.
GUNNING.
No, although you do it very nicely. I want to ask you what you think
of me.
[_Leaning on back of chair, R.C._
MISS WOODWARD.
I haven't thought of you.
GUNNING.
Well, I'd like you to begin.
MISS WOODWARD.
I'm afraid I haven't time now.
GUNNING.
It might be to your interest, though I don't say positively that it
would be.
MISS WOODWARD.
Explain.
[_Turns to him._
GUNNING.
I think I ought first to tell you something about myself.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_In mock alarm._] Not the story of your life, surely. My cab will be
here soon.
GUNNING.
You told me yours last night?
MISS WOODWARD.
You asked me to. I haven't asked you.
GUNNING.
You needn't reproach me for taking an interest in you.
MISS WOODWARD.
I don't; but you make such a fuss about it, as if it were a sort of
miracle.
GUNNING.
[_Crossly takes plate from her lap and cake from her hand; puts them
on table, R._] Oh well, I suppose I oughtn't to detain you, Miss
Woodward. You are evidently anxious to get back to your twelve sisters
and the hat and frock you told me about.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Rises._] You needn't throw the family poverty in my face, although
it serves me right for giving my confidence to a comparative stranger.
GUNNING.
Miss Woodward, I humbly beg your pardon.
MISS WOODWARD.
Although the home may be grubby, I daresay we are as happy as you. We
believe in things, anyway--you don't.
GUNNING.
Don't judge me by a hasty remark. Besides, I had an alternative to
suggest.
MISS WOODWARD.
You? You don't want a secretary, do you?
GUNNING.
I--I wanted to tell you in a different way, but you won't let me. I
want you as my wife.
MISS WOODWARD.
Your wife, Mr. Gunning?
GUNNING.
It may appear sudden and cold-blooded--but your cab is coming.
MISS WOODWARD.
You've taken my breath away. How exciting it is when it does come. I
really don't know what to say. I know there is a usual thing. It isn't
"To what am I indebted for this honour," is it?
GUNNING.
I don't know. I've never asked a girl before.
MISS WOODWARD.
We don't know each other in the least.
GUNNING.
That's where we would start with a big advantage. We'd have all the
pleasure of finding each other out. Anyway, you are not displeased.
MISS WOODWARD.
Oh no; either way I score. If I say yes, I suppose I'll make a good
match.
GUNNING.
Pretty good.
MISS WOODWARD.
And if I say no, I shall at least be able to boast of a proposal.
GUNNING.
That's so.
MISS WOODWARD.
Not that there's much satisfaction in that to a practical mind.
GUNNING.
No? [_Goes to her._] Try the other.
MISS WOODWARD.
But we don't love each other.
GUNNING.
Another big advantage. Love is the rock upon which so many
well-intentioned young persons split. They engage to marry each other
while the intelligence is perverted, the reason unbalanced, and the
judgment obscured by an overpowering sentiment. They enter into a
solemn life-binding contract in a highly emotional and altogether
unnormal moral condition. The disastrous results of such folly we see
examples of daily. We will escape that snare. [_He comes close to
her._] Of course if the sentiment should subsequently come, if that
particular kind of emotion should by chance supervene, we'll deal with
it as best we may.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Sits on arm of sofa._] Still there must be something in love-making.
I remember my sister and the curate seemed to have a very good time.
We all thought them fussy, but I know they liked it.
GUNNING.
I made love to you in the garden this morning.
MISS WOODWARD.
Did you? I thought it was pity, and resented it
GUNNING.
You refused me a rose, and gave one----
MISS WOODWARD.
I refused you because I thought you pitied me, and gave one to Mr.
Parbury because I pitied him.
GUNNING.
I'd like you to pity me.
MISS WOODWARD.
I _should_ if I said yes. [_Leaves him._] But I mean to say no.
GUNNING.
[_Following her._] You are afraid.
MISS WOODWARD.
Of what?
GUNNING.
Of what people call my "nasty sneering way," for instance.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Confidently._] Oh, I could deal with that all right.
GUNNING.
I'm sure you could. [_Goes near to her._] Say yes, Hyacinth.
_Enter EVANS, L._
EVANS.
Your cab is here, Miss.
GUNNING.
[_To MISS WOODWARD, in low voice._] Send it away. [_She hesitates._]
Do.
MISS WOODWARD.
Thank you, Evans. Let it wait.
[_GUNNING moves away to C. with a satisfied smile._
EVANS.
Yes, Miss.
[_Exit L._
MISS WOODWARD.
Good-bye, Mr. Gunning. If you were entirely different from what you
are, I think I could have liked you; or if I were entirely different
from what I am, I think I might have married you. But you are
hopelessly modern and cold-blooded, and I am only an old-fashioned,
healthy English girl, and a healthy English girl doesn't want to make
experiments, she wants to be loved.
[_Suddenly GUNNING throws his arm round her, and bends forward to kiss
her. She quickly raises her clenched hand as if to strike him in the
face. He looks her in the eyes without flinching._
GUNNING.
Perhaps she wants a master.
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Softly._] Perhaps.
[_Her hand slowly drops; he kisses her._
COLONEL.
[_Outside L._] No, my dear; I can't wait any longer.
GUNNING.
[_In a low voice to MISS WOODWARD._] The garden. Will you come and
find me a rose?
MISS WOODWARD.
Yes.
_Enter COLONEL ARMITAGE, L., MRS. PARBURY, and MR. PARBURY._
[_MISS WOODWARD and GUNNING exeunt quickly to garden, R._
[_MRS. PARBURY comes down L. and sits on sofa. PARBURY goes R. and
sits, ARMITAGE remains C. They are all silent and uneasy. A
considerable pause, during which they are occupied with avoiding each
other's eyes._
COLONEL.
A cheerful day.
MR. PARBURY.
Yes.
MRS. PARBURY.
Very.
[_Another uneasy pause._
COLONEL.
Well, I must be going.
MR. PARBURY.
Don't go.
MRS. PARBURY.
Please stay, father.
[_Another pause._
COLONEL.
[_With much irritation._] Well, you see I'm staying.
MRS. PARBURY.
Thank you.
MR. PARBURY.
Thank you, Colonel.
COLONEL.
But I should like to know what the devil for?
MRS. PARBURY.
Father!
MR. PARBURY.
Colonel!
COLONEL.
I really think I have cause to be angry. A more depressing function
than your luncheon party to-day I've never experienced. I think I have
a right to a little cheerfulness in my middle age. I'm sure I've
earned it. I've had a great deal to put up with in my life.
MR. PARBURY.
No doubt, no doubt.
COLONEL.
Of course I have always accepted my full share of the blame. That I
have felt to be only right and manly. [_Pause. He looks at CLEMENT._]
As for my late dear wife, her heart was rarely deaf to a proper
expression of regret. The memory of her I feel to be a blessing to
this day. [_He blows his nose sympathetically._] One thing I can tell
you, Mabel, that when your dear mother and I made it up--well, we
_did_ make it up. I am not without some very agreeable
recollections--most agreeable. [_Pause. He comes to MRS. PARBURY._] I
trust you won't require me tonight, my dear. I have to attend a
Masonic Banquet.
MRS. PARBURY.
No, father; I shan't want you.
COLONEL.
Then good-bye. [_Aside to her._] Be true to your own good heart. Your
dear mother was--sometimes. [_He kisses her, and then goes to
PARBURY._] Good-bye, Clement. [_Aside to him._] Bear up; I've been
there myself. [_He goes--aside at door._] Rather tactful, I
think--rather tactful.
[_Exit L._
[_There is a constrained silence. MRS. PARBURY is particularly uneasy.
After a moment PARBURY rises, lights a cigarette, and stands at
mantelpiece._
MRS. PARBURY.
Am I in the way, dear? Do you want to work?
PARBURY.
No. [_Rises, goes up R._] To-day must be a holiday.
MRS. PARBURY.
Holidays are meant to be happy days.
PARBURY.
I suppose so.
MRS. PARBURY.
Our happy days have gone. I suppose they will never come back.
[_Very sadly._
PARBURY.
It would be wiser to look for new ones than to weep over the old ones.
MRS. PARBURY.
I'll not cry, dear; I promise you that. [_Pause. Suddenly rises and
turns to him._] Clement, can't we start again?
PARBURY.
Perhaps. But we must consider first where we now are and the direction
in which we should go.
MRS. PARBURY.
Perhaps in your heart you are blaming me more than I deserve--I mean
about Miss Woodward.
PARBURY.
You chose to keep the motives of your conduct a secret from me.
MRS. PARBURY.
I may have been wrong. I saw her kiss your photograph.
PARBURY.
[_Starts slightly._] Why didn't you tell me? [_Pause._] Why didn't you
tell me?
MRS. PARBURY.
I thought--I thought it would be wiser not to.
PARBURY.
What have I ever done to earn so low an estimate of my character from
you--that I am not to be trusted with the knowledge that a foolish
girl had kissed my photograph.
MRS. PARBURY.
Nothing, dear; nothing. But I was jealous--furious. I am sorry. [_She
is half-turned from him. He smiles very kindly, and half makes a step
forward as if to take her in his arms, then restrains himself._]
[_Drooping._] You are very, very angry with me?
PARBURY.
I am very, very pained.
MRS. PARBURY.
Can't you forgive?
PARBURY.
Yes, that is forgiven.
MRS. PARBURY.
You say you forgive, but you don't make me feel it. [_Slight pause. He
is obviously tempted to come to her, but does not._] Won't you forget
too, and let us go back together?
PARBURY.
No, we can never go back.
MRS. PARBURY.
Love counts for something, Clement.
PARBURY.
[_Comes to her._] Does love without respect count for very much? Would
you like to go back to the old way--the way of petty tyranny--the way
of the cowardly, unnecessary tear--the way of gaining your own ends at
all costs--the way of being a spoilt child, instead of a thoughtful
and considerate woman--the way of my own contemptible weakness?
MRS. PARBURY.
I never looked upon it in that light. I thought I was happy then.
PARBURY.
Because you never dreamed that my love was beginning to wear badly.
MRS. PARBURY.
[_Startled._] Clement! . . . Oh? [_Goes to him._] Good God!
PARBURY.
I don't want ever to think or speak of it again; but to-day I must,
for if we are honest with each other, we may be able in time to save
ourselves from that most pitiable and hideous of all states of
existence--what is called "a cat and dog life." Have you never seen
it--that domestic flower with the rotten heart? The thin outside
petals of courtesy, of hollow words of endearment before others, mask
the ugly truth from the casual and unobservant; but the intimate
friends know, and the prying eyes of the spiteful are undeceived. That
man and woman who appear in public wearing the veneered ghost of a
smile, are walking in hell. Think of their private lives--the slow
death of love; the hearts poisoned with bitterness; the ever-growing
rancour; the bandied insolences; the swift thoughts, black as murder;
the final dull monotony of aching hatred. Do you think such cases
rare? Every rank of society has its examples. Do you think such a
couple have deliberately sought their hell? Oh no; they may have
started as fairly as we did. Their love has not been slain by a blow,
it has been pecked to a cupboard skeleton by littlenesses--little
jealousies, little selfishnesses, little insults, little tyrannies,
little intolerances.
MRS. PARBURY.
Clement, you terrify me. [C.R.] Oh, I am ashamed--ashamed. You have
made me shudder at the old way. Dear, if I have lost a particle of
your love, I'll win it back. You will show me the new way, won't you?
PARBURY.
The new way for us is the old way for the wise. It is a pleasant way
strewn with flowers, the flowers of self-abnegation--of sweet
reasonableness--of patient tolerance--of enduring trustfulness.
Walking in that way we seek diligently for the happiness, not of
ourselves, but of each other. Rising in the morning we say, not, I
will find happiness to-day, but I will give happiness to-day. In that
way lie peace, the fulfilment of our better selves, the full golden
harvest of love.
[_As he speaks these words with deep sympathy, standing a little away
from her, she gradually draws nearer to him._
MRS. PARBURY.
I will walk in that way with you, Clement. [_She stoops, and taking
one of his hands kisses it. Pause._]
[_He stoops and raises her, and takes her in his arms._
_Enter MISS WOODWARD and GUNNING. GUNNING wears a rose in his coat._
GUNNING.
Really--I beg your pardon.
MRS. PARBURY.
Don't trouble about us any more. We're reconciled. [_She remains in
her husband's arms._]
[_GUNNING turns smilingly to MISS WOODWARD and takes her hand._
MISS WOODWARD.
[_Smiling back upon GUNNING._] Don't trouble about us any more. We're
engaged.
_Curtain._
Transcriber's Note
This transcription is based on scanned images posted by the Internet
Archive from a copy in the University of California, Los Angeles
Library:
archive.org/details/tyrannyoftearsco00chamiala
The following changes were noted:
- Throughout the text, the convention of long dashes at the end of
lines has been made consistent.
- p. iii: ...his charming ruler, worldly-wise Gunning...--Changed
comma to a semicolon.
- p. 25: [_Leans on back of sofa._--Added closing bracket.
- p. 37: ..._MRS. PARBURY stands C., rather confused_].--Placed period
within brackets for consistency.
- p. 52: ...the trouble of doing it to-morrow--Added period to end of
sentence.
- p. 64: [_PARBURY rises; crosses to R. MRS. PARBURY follows
him._]--In html version, changed "_R._" to plain text for consistency.
- p. 79: Three o'clock--Added period to end of line.
- p. 95: _They all drink champagne..._--Added opening bracket.
- p. 115: [_He goes slowly over GUNNING..._--Inserted "_to_" after
"_over_".
- p. 123: Don t speak like that...--Inserted an apostrophe between
"Don" and "t".
- p. 124: [_Slight pause. He takes her hand_].--Placed period within
brackets for consistency.
- p. 139: Not the story of your life, surely--Added period to end of
sentence.
- p. 149: ..._then restrains himself._][_Drooping._]...--In the
printed text, there was a line break between these two directions.
They have been placed on the same line for consistency.
The html version of this etext attempts to reproduce the layout of the
printed text. However, some concessions have been made, partly to
simplify coding. For example, stage directions printed flush right at
the end of a line of dialogue without a closing bracket were placed on
the next line, indented the same amount from the left margin, and
coded as hanging paragraphs.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Tyranny of Tears, by Charles Haddon Chambers