Ann: All those lovely precious moments when I have you to myself ... don’t let them be empty moments, Philip. Think of all the agonizing happiness that we can fill them with.
Philip: Why do you always want things at fever pitch?
Ann: I don’t, but each time I am with you my love is like a child being born. It tears me to bits. And then there comes a moment of pure ecstasy and forgetfulness, and my life ceases to exist, and there is no time, and everything is simple.
Philip: My dear child, your nerves are out of order.
Ann: I’m sorry, darling. You do hate me to be what you call fanciful, don’t you?
Philip: Yes.
Ann: I’ll be just what you like. So good and sober and matter-of-fact if you’ll only smile.
Philip: One can’t always smile.
Ann: I can never help it when I’m with you. Smiles seem to flutter about my lips like butterflies. But sometimes I can’t help thinking—in an hour he’ll be gone, in ten minutes he’ll be gone. And then when people come into the room, I try to shut them out of my consciousness and imagine I am in your arms. Do you never do that?
Philip: No.