In effigy— But you were quite as much wrought up about the business as I at that time. We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a blamed idiot. "How can such a numbskull dare"—these were your very words—"to set bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle your next work still, so to speak, in the womb?" You said that! And to-day you quote that literary hawker. (Marg: Please do not shout. My housekeeper—) I don't propose to bother myself about the widows of defunct generals when every nerve in my body is a-tingle. (Marg: What did I say? I can't account for your touchiness.) Touchiness! You call me touchy? You! Who used to be seized with a violent fit of trembling every time some insignificant booby or some trumpery sheet happened to utter an unfavorable word of criticism.

Gil Monologue from Literature

Rehearse Gil's monologue