Droops as it did. See, here's my elbow's mark

In the dust on the sill.

Ottima. Oh shut the lattice, pray!

Sebald. Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here,
Foul as the morn may be.
There, shut the world out!
How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curse
The world and all outside! Let us throw off
This mask: how do you bear yourself? Let's out

With all of it!

Ottima. Best never speak of it.

Sebald. Best speak again and yet again of it,
Till words cease to be more than words. 'His blood,'
For instance—let those two words mean 'His blood'

And nothing more. Notice, I'll say them now,
'His blood.'

Ottima. Assuredly if I repented
The deed—

Sebald. Repent? who should repent, or why?

What puts that in your head? Did I once say
That I repented?

Ottima. No, I said the deed—

Sebald. 'The deed,' and 'the event'—just now it was

'Our passion's fruit—the devil take such cant!
Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol
I am his cut-throat, you are—

Ottima. Here is the wine;
I brought it when we left the house above,
And glasses too—wine of both sorts. Black? white, then?

Sebald. But am not I his cut-throat? What are you?