Unless— (he goes over to the desk, puts...

Unless— (he goes over to the desk, puts his hand on that chair) —here. (Standing back, as if looking at her) She is sitting here with her papers—with her thoughts, and the words for her thoughts. She is wearing a white dress. The full skirt spreads out from the chair. The sleeves too are full, and her small hands hover over what she has. Her eyes—Heavens! Have I forgotten them?
[...]
Her brown hair is parted in the middle, and held loosely at the neck. She is looking straight ahead, as if into something. But she is really waiting for the right word to come. They came, you can tell that. They were willing visitors. She didn't have to go out and pull them in. There is a knock at the door. It's me. I am crying. She makes a funny little face. She says, “Tell Alison.” I tell her Jimmy Miles has knocked over my mud house. She says, “You can build a fort, and put him in it.” She tells me the story of the bumble-bee that got drunk on larkspur and set out to see how drunk you could get in heaven. And what became of her thoughts—the thought I interrupted?

Susan Glaspell. “Alison’s House” in Six Plays: the Green Pastures: Marc Connelly: Street Scene: Elmer Rice: Badger's Green: R. C. Sherriff: Down Our Street: Ernest George: Socrates: Clifford Bax: Alison's House: Susan Glaspell. (London, 1930) p.653