A square of darkness opening in it—
Fife. Oh,
I don’t half like such openings!—
Ros. Like the loom
Of night from which she spins her outer gloom—
Fife. Lord, Madam, pray forbear this tragic vein
In such a time and place—
Ros. And now again
Within that square of darkness, look! a light
That feels its way with hesitating pulse,