Rosmer. I cannot help it, Rebecca. I cannot shake off these gnawing doubts, however much I may wish to.
Rebecca. But it may become dangerous—this eternal dwelling upon one miserable subject.
Rosmer. [Walks about restlessly, in thought.] I must have betrayed myself in one way or another. She must have noticed how happy I began to feel from the time you came to us.
Rebecca. Yes but, dear, even if she did?
Rosmer. Be sure it didn't escape her that we read the same books—that the interest of discussing all the new ideas drew us together. Yet I cannot understand it! I was so careful to spare her. As I look back, it seems to me I made it the business of my life to keep her in ignorance of all our interests. Did I not, Rebecca?
Rebecca. Yes, yes; certainly you did.
Rosmer. And you too. And yet! Oh, it's terrible to think of! She must have gone about here—full of her morbid passion—saying never a word—watching us—noting everything—and misinterpreting everything.
