"If you tell lies, Audrey, what am I to believe? What you said then, or what you say now?"
"I'm telling the truth now, because I don't want this wretched misunderstanding to go any further."
"Can't you speak plainly? Do you mean this, that you don't love me?"
"Yes. It's true. I don't love you; I can't—at least, not like that."
"I can't believe it! It's impossible! As long as I can remember, whatever you said or did, you made me think you loved me. You said last year you'd be my wife; but that's nothing. Long before that, you let me live on the hope of it, year after year. It's inconceivable that you could have done these things if you didn't care for me. Even you couldn't be such an unfeeling little fiend."
"No, no; you worked on my feelings. You wouldn't let me have any will of my own. And now you want me to marry you whether I like it or not. Whatever happens, I can't do that, Vincent."
"Why not?"
"Must I tell you?"
"Isn't that the very least you can do?"
"Well—you know, Vincent, you've been very wild; you've told me so yourself a thousand times."