The Verge By Susan Glaspell

ADELAIDE: Claire, dear, I wish I could make you feel how much I care for you. You can call me all the names you like—dull, commonplace, lazy—that is a new idea, I confess, but the rest of our family’s gone now, and the love that used to be there between us all—the only place for it now is between you and me. You were so much loved, Claire. You oughtn’t to try and get away from a world in which you are so much loved, Mother—father—all of us, always loved Claire best. We always loved Claire’s queer gaiety. Now you’ve got to hand it to us for that, as the children say. And can’t you see, dear, that it’s better for us we didn’t? And that it would be better for you now if you would just resolutely look somewhere else? You must see yourself that you haven’t the poise of people who are held—well, within the circle, if you choose to put it that way. There’s something about being in that main body, having one’s roots in the big common experiences, gives a calm which you have missed. That’s why I want you to take Elizabeth, forget yourself, and— I know you have to be yourself, Claire. But I don’t admit you have a right to hurt other people.