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II] moment—that I am neglecting her? [He clasps his hands nervously and leans across toward .] I may be silent still. And she may yield to you at last—wholly and many times.

[Draws back at once.] My dear Richard, my dear friend, I swear to you I could not make you suffer.

[Continuing.] You may then know in soul and body, in a hundred forms, and ever restlessly, what some old theologian, Duns Scotus, I think, called a death of the spirit.

[Eagerly.] A death. No; its affirmation! A death! The supreme instant of life from which all coming life proceeds, the eternal law of nature herself.

And that other law of nature, as you call it: change. How will it be when you turn against her and against me; when her beauty, or what seems so to you now, wearies you and my affection for you seems false and odious?

That will never be. Never.

And you turn even against yourself for having known me or trafficked with us both?

[Gravely.] It will never be like that, Richard. Be sure of that.