Tim: You are, very nearly. You make everyone happy.
Ann: I don’t! My God—I don’t.
Tim: How I used to curse your marriage to Ninian. I do still in a way—and yet I am glad—selfishly glad, perhaps, that you have never been in love, that no hellish divine unrest has wrought havoc in your heart—that you are always there, serene and luminous and tender and whole.
Ann (wonderingly): Do you really think I am like that?
Tim: Yes. Not a searchlight, or a lamp, but sunshine out of doors.
Ann: My dear, I am a nervous, impatient, hungry, selfish creature.
Tim: You are a wicked woman, to fish after all the divine things I have been saying to you.
Ann: Tim, you spoil me.
Tim (seizing her shoulders): I’d love to spoil you, all day, every day, all of the time. I’m sorry, Ann. I’m being rough and uncontrolled, and worrying you. Forgive me.
Ann: Forgive you? Tim dear, you are an angel, and I am a very ordinary woman, and so tired.