ANABEL. How can I?
GERALD. How can't you?—You've got a devil inside you.
ANABEL. Then make me not have a devil.
GERALD. I've know you long enough—and known myself long enough—to know I can make you nothing at all, Anabel: neither can you make me. If the happiness isn't there—well, we shall have to wait for it, like a dispensation. It probably means we shall have to hate each other a little more.—I suppose hate is a real process.
ANABEL. Yes, I know you believe more in hate than in love.
GERALD. Nobody is more weary of hate than I am—and yet we can't fix our own hour, when we shall leave off hating and fighting. It has to work itself out in us.
ANABEL. But I don't WANT to hate and fight with you any more. I don't BELIEVE in it—not any more.
GERALD. It's a cleansing process—like Aristotle's Katharsis. We shall hate ourselves clean at last, I suppose.
ANABEL. Why aren't you clean now? Why can't you love? (He laughs.) DO you love me?
GERALD. Yes.