Hialmar.
[Vehemently.] How can I live here, to be stabbed to the heart every hour of the day?
Gina.
God forgive you for thinking such vile things of me.
Hialmar.
Prove——!
Gina.
I think it’s you as has got to prove.
Hialmar.
After a past like yours? There are certain claims—I may almost call them claims of the ideal——