Behind them the blur of the window is darkened.
Mary [in his arms]. Why yes! Had he your key-word—! Sometimes I like him yet, When anger comes in a white lightning flash, Then he’s the man of men still, then with shut eyes I think him you and shiver and I like him, Held roughly in his arms, thinking of you. The Warwick burr is like an afterwards Of thunder when he’s angry, in his speech.
Marlowe. What does he say?
Mary. He says he is not jealous! He would not wrong me so, nor wrong himself. Then the sky lightens and we kiss—or kiss not! Who cares? Then in come you. It’s well he thinks you his In friendship—
Marlowe. So I was.
Shakespeare swings himself noiselessly over the sill.
Mary. And so you are, And have all things in common as friends should. Eh, friend? Oh, stir not! Frowning? If you were a fool— (How did it run?) you’d let me guess you—jealous! But you’re no fool.
Marlowe. Let’s have no more! You know I loved—I love the man.
Mary. Why, so do I.
Marlowe. You shall not!