Requiem for a Nun by William Faulkner

she has already found it, snaps it on and lights the cigarette, talking through the smoke.

    Temple
    Listen. How much do you know?

    Stevens
    Nothing.

    Temple
    Swear.

    Stevens
    Would you believe me?

    Temple
    No. But swear anyway.

    Stevens
    All right. I swear.

    Temple
    (crushes cigarette into tray)

    Then listen. Listen carefully.

    (she stands, tense, rigid, facing him, staring at him)

    Temple Drake is dead. Temple Drake will have been dead six years longer than Nancy Mannigoe will ever be. If all Nancy Mannigoe has to save her is Temple Drake, then God help Nancy Mannigoe. Now get out of here.
    She stares at him; another moment. Then he rises, still watching her; she stares steadily and implacably back. Then he moves.

    Temple
    Good night.

    Stevens
    Good night.
    He goes back to the chair, takes up his coat and hat, then goes on to the hall door, has put his hand on the knob.

    Temple
    Gavin.

    (he pauses, his hand on the knob, and looks back at her)

    Maybe I’ll have the handkerchief, after all.

    (he looks at her a moment longer, then releases the knob, takes the handkerchief from his breast pocket as he crosses back toward her, extends it. She doesn’t take it)

    All right. What will I have to do? What do you suggest, then?

    Stevens
    Everything.

    Temple
    Which of course I wont. I will not. You can understand that, cant you? At least you can hear it. So let’s start over, shall we? How much will I have to tell?

    Stevens
    Everything.

    Temple
    Then I wont need the handkerchief, after all. Good night. Close the front door when you go out, please. It’s getting cold again.
    He turns, crosses again to the door without stopping nor looking back, exits, closes the door behind him. She is not watching him either now. For a moment after the door has closed, she doesn’t move. Then she makes a gesture something like Gowan’s in Scene Two, except that she merely presses her palms for a moment hard against her face, her face calm, expressionless, cold, drops her hands, turns, picks up the crushed cigarette from beside the tray and puts it into the tray and takes up the tray and crosses to the fireplace, glancing down at the sleeping child as she passes the sofa, empties the tray into the fireplace and returns to the table and puts the tray on it and this time pauses at the sofa and stoops and tucks the blanket closer about the sleeping child and then goes on to the telephone and lifts the receiver.

    Temple
    (into the phone)

    Two three nine, please.

    (while she stands waiting for the answer, there is a slight movement in the darkness beyond the open door at rear, just enough silent movement to show that something or someone is there or has moved there. Temple is unaware of it since her back is turned. Then she speaks into the phone)

    Maggie? Temple. . . . Yes, suddenly . . . Oh, I dont know; perhaps we got bored with sunshine. . . . Of course, I may drop in tomorrow. I wanted to leave a message for Gavin . . . I know; he just left here. Something I forgot . . . If you’ll ask him to call me when he comes in. . . . Yes. . . . Wasn’t it. . . . Yes. . . . If you will . . . Thank you.

    (she puts the receiver down and starts to turn back into the room when the telephone rings. She turns back, takes up the receiver, speaks into it)

    Hello . . . Yes. Coincidence again; I had my hand on it; I had just called Maggie. . . . Oh, the filling station. I didn’t think you had had time. I can be ready in thirty minutes. Your car, or ours? . . . All right. Listen. . . . Yes, I’m here. Gavin . . . How much will I have to tell?

    (hurriedly)

    Oh, I know: you’ve already told me eight or ten times. But maybe I didn’t hear it right. How much will I have to tell?

    (she listens a moment, quiet, frozen-faced, then slowly begins to lower the receiver toward the stand; she speaks