And we must face the barren norland hills.
Lancelot. And must this be?
Guinevere. Nay, Lancelot, it is.
How shall we stand alone against the world?
Lancelot. More lonely in it than against!
What’s the world to us?
Guinevere. The place in which we live.
We cannot slip it from us like a garment,
For it is like the air—if we should flee
To the remotest steppes of Tartary,