Oswald. Do you mean by that, that father--?
Mrs. Alving. Your poor father never found any outlet for the
overmastering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no
holiday spirit into his home, either.
Oswald. You didn't, either?
Mrs. Alving. I had been taught about duty, and the sort of thing
that I believed in so long here. Everything seemed to turn upon
duty--my duty, or his duty--and I am afraid I made your poor
father's home unbearable to him, Oswald.
Oswald. Why didn't you ever say anything about it to me in your
letters?
Mrs. Alving. I never looked at it as a thing I could speak of to
you, who were his son.
Oswald. What way did you look at it, then?
Mrs. Alving. I only saw the one fact, that your father was a lost
man before ever you were born.
Oswald (in a choking voice). Ah--! (He gets up and goes to the
window.)
Mrs. Alving. And then I had the one thought in my mind, day and
night, that Regina in fact had as good a right in this house--as
my own boy had.
Oswald (turns round suddenly), Regina--?
Regina (gets up and asks in choking tones).
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