ATROPOS
—Thine hand . . . What wouldst thou?
—Thee.
—Me? . . . Man, there is no desire in thine eyes; thinkest thou it is polite to jest?
—Thy price?
—Truly? Art thou wealthy?
—Thy price!
—Well, friend, thirty drachmae to thee. But first, tell me . . .
—Where is thy dwelling?
—How strange thou art! . . . What hast thou to do with love?
—Nothing.
—Nothing? . . . Ah! . . .
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