William.
Yes! For in these surroundings you—even you—I can scarcely separate you in my mind from the rest! I’m losing you! It’s criminal in me the mere fact that you should be here!
Ida.
If you could only explain, William, there must be—something terrible must have happened here that—
William.
Here! A crime—all the more terrible because it did not count as one. Here my life was given to me, and here that same life—I can tell you, was—I had almost said systematically destroyed, till it grew loathsome to me—till I dragged it—bowed down like a beast of burden—crept about with it—buried myself, hid myself.—What can I say—one suffers beyond words!—Fury—hate—revenge—despair without ceasing, day and night; the same gnawing devouring pain (pointing to his forehead) here (pointing to his heart) and there!
Ida.
Only—what can I do, William? I dare not trust myself to advise you in any way, I am so—
William.