Tell me, are you mad? That’s well. Then you don’t love Sir Despard Murgatroyd? All mad girls love him. I love him. I’m poor Mad Margaret – Crazy Meg – Poor Peg! He!
He! He! He!
You pity me? Then be my mother! The squirrel had a mother, but she drank and the squirrel fled! Hush! They sing a brave song in our parts – it runs somewhat thus:
(Sings) The cat and the dog and the puppee
Sat down in a – down in a—
I forgot what they sat down in, but so the song goes! Listen – I’ve come to pinch Rose Maybud!
Aye! I love him. He loved me once. But that’s all gone. Fisht! He gave me an Italian glance – thus ---- and made me his. He will give her an Italian glance, and make her his. But it shall not be. For I’ll stamp on her – stamp on her – stamp on her. Did you ever kill anybody? No? Why not? Listen – I killed a fly this morning! It buzzed, and I wouldn’t have it. So it died – Pop! So shall she.
We have been married for a week. One happy, happy week! Master, I owe this all to you! See, I am no longer wild and untidy. My hair is combed. My face is washed. My boots fit. I am a gentle district visitor. Master, when I think of all you have done for me, I fall at your feet. I embrace your ankles. I hug your knees.
Yes, I know dear, it shan’t occur again. Shall I tell you one of poor Mad Margaret’s old thoughts? Well, then, when I am lying awake at night, and the pale moonlight streams through the latticed casement, strange fancies crowd upon my poor mad brain, and I sometimes think that if we could hit upon some word for you to use whenever I am about to relapse – some work that teems with hidden meaning – like Basingstoke – it might recall me to my saner self. For, after all, I am only Mad Margaret? Daft Meg! Poor Meg! He! He! He!