'I want to be mad again,' he said. 'I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to think how I have been.'
'Yes, you can,' said Ingrid.
'No; that no one can forget,' he moaned. 'I was so dreadful! No one can love me.'
'I love you,' she said.
He looked up doubtfully.
'You kissed me in order that I should not go out of my mind again. You pity me.'
'I will kiss you again,' she said.
'You say that now because you think I am in need of hearing it.'
'Are you in need of hearing that someone loves you?'
'If I am—if I am? Ah, child,' he said, and tore himself away from her, 'how can I possibly bear it, when I know that everyone who sees me thinks: "That fellow has been mad; he has gone about curtsying for dogs and cats."'