presaging Gowan’s return, or perhaps simply knew by instinct or from knowledge of her own house, that he had had time to heat a cup of milk. Then continues, rapid and quiet) There was no man there. You see? I told you, warned you, that you would get nothing from me. Oh, I know; you could have put me on the stand at any time, under oath; of course, your jury wouldn’t have liked it—that wanton crucifixion of a bereaved mamma, but what’s that in the balance with justice? I dont know why you didn’t.
fulcrum for your lever. Or maybe we’re both wrong and both should give credit—what little of it—where credit—what little of it—is due, since it was just the money with her too at first, though he was probably still thinking it was just the money at the very time when, having got her own jewelry together and found where her husband kept the key to the strongbox (and I imagine, even opened it one night after her husband was in bed asleep and counted the money in it or at least made sure there was
going to save her, but now you can say so. It wont be difficult. Just one word— (she stops, arrested, utterly motionless, but even then she is first to recover) Oh God. (Gowan rises quickly. Temple whirls to Stevens) Why is it you must always believe in plants? Do you have to? Is it because you have to? Because you are a lawyer? No, I’m wrong. I’m sorry; I was the one that started us hiding gimmicks on each other, wasn’t it? (quickly: turning to Gowan) Of course; you didn’t take the sleeping
transparent glass, and (all you had to do was look at it a while; all you have to do now is remember it) there is the clear undistanced voice as though out of the delicate antenna-skeins of radio, further than empress’s throne, than splendid insatiation, even than matriarch’s peaceful rocking chair, across the vast instantaneous intervention, from the long long time ago: ‘Listen, stranger; this was myself: this was I’. SCENE I Interior, the Jail. 10:30 A.M. March twelfth. The common
his name and his blood too, leaving nothing but the name of his plantation and his own fading corrupted legend like a thin layer of the native ephemeral yet inevictable dust on a section of country surrounding a little lost paintless crossroads store) twenty miles away behind a slave coachman and footman in his imported English carriage and what was said to be the finest matched team outside of Natchez or Nashville, and Compson said, ‘I reckon that’ll do,’—all knowing what he meant: not
