FAIN. For loving you?

MRS. MAR. I loathe the name of love after such usage; and next to
the guilt with which you would asperse me, I scorn you most.
Farewell.

FAIN. Nay, we must not part thus.

MRS. MAR. Let me go.

FAIN. Come, I'm sorry.

MRS. MAR. I care not. Let me go. Break my hands, do--I'd leave
'em to get loose.

FAIN. I would not hurt you for the world. Have I no other hold to
keep you here?

MRS. MAR. Well, I have deserved it all.

FAIN. You know I love you.

MRS. MAR. Poor dissembling! Oh, that--well, it is not yet -

FAIN. What? What is it not? What is it not yet? It is not yet
too late -

MRS. MAR. No, it is not yet too late--I have that comfort.