Selection: Is He Still Dead?

Joyce: There's no money!

(He climbs up, weak but surging with feeling.  They intercut their raw fears at a furious pace.)

Nora: Wisha, Jim, don't start on that - we'll get the money from -

Joyce: - There's no money to pay her clinic bill, leave alone getting her transferred to French Switzerland, and we don't even -

Nora: - Jaysus, will you dry up for once and use your "world famous" brain to put two and two to -

Joyce: - And they want to call her mad because she believes she's being left to -

Nora: - Try not to off your own head -

Joyce: - Monsters coming to destroy her, and it's true!  There are, they're -

Nora: - Have you gone mad yourself?

Joyce: - How  can I leave her there - What if they put her out before we can send for her - My God, it's tearing me in half -

Nora: You?  Can't you think of someone, for once,  besides yourself?!

Joyce: The Germans - the Germans are coming, you foolish woman -

Nora: Your daughter! - Can't you think of your daughter - and what's best for her"

Joyce: You hate her because she's an artist - like me.  Let's have the truth at last!

(Joyce is doubled over, gasping form the ordeal.  Nora stalks in and out of the bedroom, dressing to go out, mutter to herself in wild agitation.)

Nora: (Stunned, then walking) That's the last straw.  The Pernod's rotted his brain.  He's gone too far, now.  He's burned his bridges, now.  I hate you - that's the holy truth of it: with yer "clinic," and yer "maison de sante," and yer "maison de repos" - in the name of Christ, man, when will ye face it and use the hard word: Our daughter is not an "artist" she's a poor thirty-two-year-old lunatic in a lunatic asylum!

Joyce: Help!