“[Rushes over and kneels down bedside his mother.] Mother, forgive me: I have been to blame.
Mrs. Arbuthnot. Don't kiss my hands: they are cold. My heart is cold: something has broken it.
Hester. Ah, don't say that. Hearts live by being wounded.
Pleasure may turn a heart to stone, riches may make it callous, but sorrow—oh, sorrow cannot break it. Besides, what sorrows have you now? Why, at this moment you are more dear to him than ever, dear though you have been, and oh!”