HAROLD.
They say, we should forgive our enemies.
DORA.
Ay, if the wretch were dead I might forgive him;
We know not whether he be dead or living.
HAROLD.
What Edgar?
DORA.
Philip Edgar of Toft Hall
In Somerset. Perhaps you know him?
HAROLD.
Slightly.
(_Aside_.) Ay, for how slightly have I known myself.
DORA.
This Edgar, then, is living?
HAROLD.
Living? well--
One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in Somerset
Is lately dead.
DORA.
Dead!--is there more than one?
HAROLD.
Nay--now--not one, (_aside_) for I am Philip Harold.
DORA.
That one, is he then--dead!
HAROLD.
(_Aside_.) My father's death,
Let her believe it mine; this, for the moment,
Will leave me a free field.
DORA.
Dead! and this world
Is brighter for his absence as that other
Is darker for his presence.
HAROLD.
Is not this
To speak too pitilessly of the dead?
DORA.
My five-years' anger cannot die at once,
Not all at once with death and him.
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