[after a rehearsal that has gone very well, with Helene and Harry acting powerfully, and almost erotically, with each other:]George Johnson: Lydia. Do we have a play, or do we have a play?Lydia: What play? There isn't any play going on now.George Johnson: What?Harry Nash: [still in Kowalski mode, though with that undeniable Walken accent:] Hey, you![George points toward himself questioningly, to be sure that Harry is speaking to him]Harry Nash: You t'rough wit' me?George Johnson: What?Harry Nash: [shouting] Can I go home now?George Johnson: Sure, Harry, yeah.[Harry waves his hand in a sort of angry farewell and turns away]Lydia: You aren't directing this play, George.George Johnson: What do you - What are you saying, what do you mean, "I'm not directing this play"? Who is?Lydia: Mother Nature at her worst.[Helene is watching Harry leave with a hungry, almost feral look. Harry turns back to give Helene a predatory, seductive smile]Lydia: What's going to happen to that girl when she discovers what Harry really is? What Harry really *isn't*.
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