I thank you for that eternal
possession. Let it be a dream, austere and pure. Passion has its own
ascetic cell, where it can fast and scourge itself. I ask you for
nothing, Blanche. I am yours wholly. Do what you like with me.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Go back to your wife.
Denham.
Yes--my poor Constance! Well, Blanche, at least you and I can't
utterly spoil each other's lives. We can't _marry_ each other.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Don't say any more. Let us forget all this.
Denham.
Forget? No. But we must renounce. You, too, will wear the sackcloth.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_petulantly_) Why should _I_ wear sackcloth?
Denham.
My dear Blanche, you are not such a fine coquette as you imagine.
(_Going close up to her._) Do you think I can't read those beautiful
eyes of yours? You love me! Your love fills the air like the
fragrance of a flower. (_He clasps her in his arms._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_impatiently_) Suppose I did. _Apres?_
Denham.
You do love me, Blanche? (_Kisses her._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_with inward rage_) Yes, I love you. (_Suddenly embracing him._) I
love you! What does it matter?
Denham.
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