Ah, you have uttered my thought. I feel as though a ghost walked with me.
Poet.
And I could almost swear
You do not feel your grief molded as the phantom wills.
Marquise.
I do feel it. There is a spell,
An echo from afar.
Poet.
Nerves ... the dance ... fatigue!
Too many perfumes ... too many mirrors....
Marquise.
And the lack of a voice I love.
Poet.