RECHA.
What is the matter, Daya?
So quick—what comes across him, drives him hence?
DAYA.
Let him alone, I think it no bad sign.
RECHA.
Sign—and of what?
DAYA.
That something passes in him.
It boils—but it must not boil over. Leave him—
Now ’tis your turn.
RECHA.
My turn? Thou dost become
Like him incomprehensible to me.