ANABEL. Yes, it grieves me—though I should be bored if I had to be stately, I think.—Isn't it beautiful in this light, like an eighteenth-century aquatint? I'm sure no age was as ugly as this, since the world began.
GERALD. For pure ugliness, certainly not. And I believe none has been so filthy to live in.—Let us sit down a minute, shall we? and watch the rooks fly home. It always stirs sad, sentimental feelings in me.
ANABEL. So it does in me.—Listen! one can hear the coal-carts on the road—and the brook—and the dull noise of the town—and the beating of New London pit—and voices—and the rooks—and yet it is so still. We seem so still here, don't we?
GERALD. Yes.
ANABEL. Don't you think we've been wrong?
GERALD. How?
ANABEL. In the way we've lived—and the way we've loved.
GERALD. It hasn't been heaven, has it? Yet I don't know that we've been wrong, Anabel. We had it to go through.
ANABEL. Perhaps.—And, yes, we've been wrong, too.
GERALD. Probably. Only, I don't feel it like that.