Yes, he knows me. Sitting in chair. Calm,detached voice.
             It's a special kind of medicine. I have to take it because there is no other that can stop the pain-all the pain-I mean, in my hands. Raise hands look at them melancholy (sadly).
             Poor hands! You'd never believe it, but they were once one my good points, along with my hair and eyes, and I had a fine figure, too. Speaking dreamily
             They were musician's hands. I used to love the piano. I worked hard at my music in the Convent-if you can call it work when you do something you love. Mother Elizabeth and my music teacher both siad I had more talent than any student they remembered. My father paid for special lessons. He spoiled me. He would do anything I asked. He would have sent me to Europe to study after I graduated from the Convent. I might have gone-if I hadn't fallen in love with Mr. Tyrone. Or I might have become a nun. I had two dreams. To be a nun, that was the more beautiful one. To become a concert pianist, that was the other. Pause, look at hands.
             I haven't touched a piano in so many years. I couldn't play with such crippled fingers, even if I wanted to. For a time after my marriage I tried to keep up my music. But it was hopeless. One-night stands, cheap hotels, dirty trains, leaving children, never having a home. Stare at hands with fascinated disgust.
             See, Cathleen, how ugly they are! So maimed and crippled! You would think they'd been through some horrible accident! Give strange laugh.
             So they have, come to think of it. Suddenly thrust hands behind me.
             I won't look at them. They're worse than the foghorn for reminding me-
             But even they can't touch me now. Very confidentaly. Bring hands from behind back stare at them calmy.
             They're far away. I see them, but the pain has gone.
             It kills the pain. You go back until at least you are beyond its reach. Only the past when you were happy is real. Drea...