NORA.
Perhaps a little older; very, very little; certainly not much. (Stops suddenly and speaks seriously.) What a thoughtless creature I am, chattering away like this. My poor, dear Christine, do forgive me.
MRS. LINDE.
What do you mean, Nora?
NORA.
(gently). Poor Christine, you are a widow.
MRS. LINDE.
Yes; it is three years ago now.
NORA.
Yes, I knew; I saw it in the papers. I assure you, Christine, I meant ever so often to write to you at the time, but I always put it off and something always prevented me.
MRS. LINDE.
I quite understand, dear.
NORA.
It was very bad of me, Christine. Poor thing, how you must have suffered. And he left you nothing?
MRS. LINDE.
No.
NORA.
And no children?
MRS. LINDE.
No.
NORA.
Nothing at all, then?
MRS. LINDE.
Not even any sorrow or grief to live upon.
NORA.
(looking incredulously at her). But, Christine, is that possible?
MRS. LINDE.
(smiles sadly and strokes her hair). It sometimes happens, Nora.
