Rebecca. But suppose you are only deceiving yourself? Suppose it were only a delusion—one of these White Horses of Rosmersholm?
Rosmer. It may be so. We can never escape from them—we of my race.
Rebecca. Then stay, John!
Rosmer. The man shall cleave to his wife, as the wife to her husband.
Rebecca. Yes, but first tell me this—is it you that go with me, or I that go with you?
Rosmer. We shall never get to the bottom of that.
Rebecca. Yet I should dearly like to know.
Rosmer. We two go with each other, Rebecca. I with you, and you with me.
Rebecca. I almost believe that is true.
Rosmer. For now we two are one.