CLAIRE:
And what about your hands? Don't you forget your hands. How often have
I [she hesitates] murmured: they befoul the sink.
SOLANGE: The fall!
CLAIRE: Eh?
SOLANGE: [arranging the dress on CLAIRE'S hips]: The fall of your dress. I'm arranging your fall from grace.
CLAIRE: Get away, you bungler! [She kicks SOLANGE in the temple with her Louis-Quinze heel. SOLANGE, who is kneeling, staggers and draws back.]
SOLANGE: Oh! Me a burglar?
CLAIRE: I said bungler; and if you must whimper, do it in your garret. Here, in my bedroom, I will have only noble tears. A time will come when the hem of my gown whill be studded with them, but those will be precious tears. Arrange my train, you clod.
SOLANGE [in ecstasy]: Madame's being carried away!
--from The Maids