over this—wholly. There will always be a doubt—a question left. I can never again know that luxury of the soul which makes life so marvellously sweet to live!
Rebecca. [Bends over his chair-back, and says more softly:] What is it you mean, Rosmer?
Rosmer. [Looking up at her.] Peaceful, happy innocence.
Rebecca. [Recoils a step.] Yes. Innocence. [A short pause.
Rosmer. [With his elbow on the table, leaning his head on his hand, and looking straight before him.] And what extraordinary penetration she showed! How systematically she put all this together! First she begins to doubt my orthodoxyHow could that occur to her? But it did occur to her; and then it grew to be a certainty. And then—yes, then of course it was easy for her to think all the rest possible. [Sits up in his chair and runs his hands through his hair.] Oh, all these horrible imaginings! I shall never get rid of them. I feel it. I know it. At any moment they will come rushing in upon me, and bring back the thought of the dead!
Rebecca. Like the White Horse of Rosmersholm.
Rosmer. Yes, like that. Rushing forth in the darkness—in the silence.
