GERALD. Slightly sanctimonious. I think I liked you better before. I don't think I like you with this touch of aureole. People seem to me so horribly self-satisfied when they get a change of heart—they take such a fearful lot of credit to themselves on the strength of it.
ANABEL. I don't think I do.—Do you feel no different, Gerald?
GERALD. Radically, I can't say I do. I feel very much more INdifferent.
ANABEL. What to?
GERALD. Everything.
ANABEL. You're still angry—that's what it is.
GERALD. Oh, yes, I'm angry. But that is part of my normal state.
ANABEL. Why are you angry?
GERALD. Is there any reason why I shouldn't be angry? I'm angry because you treated me—well, so impudently, really—clearing out and leaving one to whistle to the empty walls.
ANABEL. Don't you think it was time I cleared out, when you became so violent, and really dangerous, really like a madman?