This spirit dwelt in me. One of my race,
A woman, long ago, stabbed through a heart
That played her false, yet she was gentle too,
And died for what her hand had done. May be
The unquiet dead come back to live in us.
O, it was she stirred this strange passion in me.
Twas not myself. Speak to me, Hubert! Say
'Twas not myself.
Kent. [Embracing her] Sole angel of my love!
Mar. You'll take me back? Let Time begin his count