OSWALD. If it were only the illness, I should stay with you, mother, you
may be sure; for you are the best friend I have in the world.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not?
OSWALD. [Wanders restlessly about.] But it's all the torment, the
gnawing remorse--and then, the great, killing dread. Oh--that awful
dread!
MRS. ALVING. [Walking after him.] Dread? What dread? What do you mean?
OSWALD. Oh, you mustn't ask me any more. I don't know. I can't describe
it.