A sickly conscience? What devilry is that?
Hilda.
I mean that your conscience is feeble—too delicately built, as it were—hasn’t strength to take a grip of things—to lift and bear what is heavy.
Solness.
[Growls.] H’m! May I ask, then, what sort of a conscience one ought to have?
Hilda.
I should like your conscience to be—to be thoroughly robust.
Solness.
Indeed? Robust, eh? Is your own conscience robust, may I ask?
Hilda.