Oh, don't talk about Beata! Don't think
about Beata any more! She is dead, and you seemed at last to have
been able to get away from the thought of her.
Rosmer. Since I have learnt of this, it seems just as if she had
come to life again in some uncanny fashion.
Rebecca. Oh no--you must not say that, John! You must not!
Rosmer. I tell you it is so. We must try and get to the bottom of
it. How can she have strayed into such a woeful misunderstanding
of me?
Rebecca. Surely you too are not beginning to doubt that she was
very nearly insane?
Rosmer. Well, I cannot deny it is just of that fact that I feel I
cannot be so altogether certain any longer. And besides if it
were so--
Rebecca. If it were so? What then?
Rosmer. What I mean is--where are we to look for the actual cause
of her sick woman's fancies turning into insanity?
Rebecca. What good can it possibly do for you to indulge in such
speculations!
Rosmer. I cannot do otherwise, Rebecca. I cannot let this doubt
go on gnawing at my heart, however unwilling I may be to face
it.
Rebecca. But it may become a real danger to you to be perpetually
dwelling on this one lugubrious topic.
Rosmer (walking about restlessly and absorbed in the idea). I
must have betrayed myself in some way or other. She must have
noticed how happy I began to feel from the day you came to us.
Rebecca. Yes; but dear, even if that were so--
Rosmer.
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