I'm not. I'm only sure--which you are not.
ANABEL. Yes, I am--I WANT to be married to you.
GERALD. I know you want me to want you to be married to me. But
whether off your own bat you have a positive desire that way, I'm
not sure. You keep something back--some sort of female reservation--
like a dagger up your sleeve. You want to see me in transports of
love for you.
ANABEL. How can you say so? There--you see--there--this is the man
that pretends to love me, and then says I keep a dagger up my sleeve.
You liar!
GERALD. I do love you--and you do keep a dagger up your sleeve--some
devilish little female reservation which spies at me from a distance,
in your soul, all the time, as if I were an enemy.
ANABEL. How CAN you say so?--Doesn't it show what you must be
yourself? Doesn't it show?--What is there in your soul?
GERALD. I don't know.
ANABEL. Love, pure love?--Do you pretend it's love?
GERALD. I'm so tired of this.
ANABEL. So am I, dead tired: you self-deceiving, self complacent
thing. Ha!--aren't you just the same? You haven't altered one scrap
not a scrap.
GERALD. All right--you are always free to change yourself.
ANABEL. I HAVE changed I AM better, I DO love you--I love you wholly
and unselfishly--I do--and I want a good new life with you.
GERALD. You're terribly wrapped up in your new goodness. I wish
you'd make up your mind to be downright bad.
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