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I’m glad I found thishandkerchief. It’s the first keepsake the Moorgave her. My stubborn husband has asked me tosteal it a hundred times.
Don’t snap at me. I’ve got something for you.
What’s going on? What are you doing herealone?
What?
You’ve got something for me? It’s acommon thing—
—to have a stupid wife.
What handkerchief? The one the Moor gave toDesdemona, which you asked me to steal somany times.
Oh, is that so? And what would you give me forthe handkerchief?
What handkerchief?
No, actually. She dropped it carelessly, and,seizing the opportunity, since I was here, I pickedit up. Look, here it is.
And what are you going to do with it? Why didyou want it so much that you begged me to stealit?
You stole it from her?
Good girl, give it to me.
If you don’t need it for some important reason,then give it back to me. Poor lady, she’ll go crazywhen she sees it’s missing.
Don’t admit to knowing anything about it. I needit. Now go, leave me.
What’s it to you?
The Moor’smind has already become infected with mypoisonous suggestions.
I’ll leave this handkerchief at Cassio’s house andlet Othello find it.
Ideas can be likepoisons. At first they hardly even taste bad, butonce they get into your blood they start burninglike hot lava.
To a jealous man, a meaninglesslittle thing like this looks like absolute proof.
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