There's a long, long strip coming from her
mouth and on the strip is written ... wait ... 'Blessed are the
sorrowful, for they shall be comforted.' But that's not so, really.
I shall never be comforted. Tell me, isn't there thunder in the
air, it's so close, so hot?
WOMAN (looking out of the window). No. I can see no clouds out
there. ...
STRANGER. Strange ... that's lightning.
WOMAN. No. You're wrong.
STRANGER. One, two, three, four, five ... now the thunder must
come! But it doesn't. I've never been frightened of a thunderstorm
until to-day--I mean, until to-night. But is it day or night?
WOMAN. My dear, it's night.
STRANGER. Yes. It _is_ night.
(The DOCTOR has come in during this scene and has sat down behind
the STRANGER, without having been seen by him.)
WAITRESS. Don't speak so loud, there's a sick person in here.
STRANGER (to the WOMAN). Give me your hand.
WOMAN (wiping it on her apron). Oh, why?
STRANGER. You've a lovely white hand. But ... look at mine. It's
black. Can't you see it's black?
WOMAN. Yes. So it is!
STRANGER. Blackened already, perhaps even rotten? I must see if my
heart's stopped. (He puts his hand to his heart.) Yes. It has! So
I'm dead, and I know when I died. Strange, to be dead, and yet to
be going about. But where am I? Are all these people dead, too?
They look as if they'd risen from the sewers of the town, or as if
they'd come from prison, poorhouse or lock hospital. They're
workers of the night, suffering, groaning, cursing, quarrelling,
torturing one another, dishonouring one another, envying one
another, as if they possessed anything worthy of envy! The fire of
sleep courses through their veins, their tongues cleave to their
palates, grown dry through cursing; and then they put out the blaze
with water, with fire-water, that engenders fresh thirst.
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