Are you unhappy?
Clare.
Why should I be?
Michael.
You are no longer the wild and buoyant thing you were. You have grown so pensive and distrait. And is it my jealous imagination?—so often lately you have seemed to avoid me....
Clare.
I—I’m sorry....
Michael.
There’s trouble in your eyes, my dearest. Clare, do you chafe at the restrictions fate has put on our love?
Clare.