Hedda.
[Collecting herself.] Oh well, of course—since you say so. But it sounded so improbable
Lövborg. It is true, all the same.
Mrs. Elvsted.
[Wringing her hands.] Oh God—oh God, Hedda—torn his own work to pieces!
Lövborg.
I have torn my own life to pieces. So why should I not tear my life-work too?
Mrs. Elvsted. And you did this last night?
Lövborg.
Yes, I tell you! Tore it into a thousand pieces—and scattered them on the fiord—far out. There there is cool sea-water at any rate—let them drift upon it—drift with the current and the wind. And then presently they will sink—deeper and deeper—as I shall, Thea.
Mrs. Elvsted.
Do you know, Lövborg, that what you have done with the book—I shall think of it to my dying day as though you had killed a little child.
Lövborg. Yes, you are right. It is a sort of child-murder.
