In spite of her goodness of
heart, she has no interests and no ideals, apart from the personal
satisfactions which have now been poisoned at their source. She has
intervened disastrously in the destinies of others. She is ill; her
nerves are all on edge; and she is, as it were, driven into a corner,
from which there is but one easy and rapid exit. Here is a case, if ever
there was one, where the end is imposed upon the artist by the whole
drift of his action. It may be said that chance plays a large part in
the concatenation of events--that, for instance, if Leonard Ferris had
not happened to live at the top of a very high building, Zoe would not
have encountered the sudden temptation to which she yields. But this, as
I have tried to show above, is a baseless complaint. Chance is a
constant factor in life, now aiding, now thwarting, the will. To
eliminate it altogether would be to produce a most unlifelike world. It
is only when the playwright so manipulates and reduplicates chance as to
make it seem no longer chance, but purposeful arrangement, that we have
the right to protest.
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