Rebecca. For you.
Rosmer (getting up). What does this mean!
Rebecca (preventing him). Sit still, dear. I will tell you more about it.
Rosmer. And you mean to say—that you have loved me—in that way!
Rebecca. I thought I might call it loving you—then. I thought it was love. But it was not. It was what I have said—a wild, uncontrollable passion.
Rosmer (speaking with difficulty). Rebecca—is it really you—you—who are sitting here telling me this?
Rebecca. Yes, indeed it is, John.
Rosmer. Then it was as the outcome of this—and under the influence of this—that you "acted," as you called it.
Rebecca. It swept over me like a storm over the sea—like one of the storms we have in winter in the north. They catch you up and rush you along with them, you know, until their fury is expended. There is no withstanding them.
Rosmer. So it swept poor unhappy Beata into the mill-race.