Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 11).djvu/484

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It was you that said that, Irene, not I.

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[Continuing.]—then I had my knife out. I wanted to stab you in the back with it.

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[Darkly.] And why did you hold your hand?

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Because it flashed upon me with a sudden horror that you were dead already—long ago.

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Dead?

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Dead. Dead, you as well as I. We sat there by the Lake of Taunitz, we two clay-cold bodies—and played with each other.

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I do not call that being dead. But you do not understand me.

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Then where is the burning desire for me that you fought and battled against when I stood freely forth before you as the woman arisen from the dead?

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Our love is assuredly not dead, Irene.