LUCAS. What?

AGNES. I know.

LUCAS. You know?

AGNES. Exactly how you regard me.

LUCAS. I don't understand you.

AGNES. Listen. Long ago, in Florence, I began to suspect that we had
made a mistake, Lucas. Even there I began to suspect that your nature
was not one to allow you to go through life sternly, severely, looking
upon me more and more each day as a fellow worker and less and less as
--a woman. I suspected this--oh, proved it!--but still made myself
believe that this companionship of ours would gradually become, in a
sense, colder--more temperate, more impassive. [Beating her brow.]
Never! never! Oh, a few minutes ago this man, who means to part us if
he can, drew your character, disposition, in a dozen words.

LUCAS. You believe him! You credit what he says of me!

AGNES. I declared it to be untrue. Oh, but--

LUCAS. But--but--

AGNES. [Rising, seizing his arm.] The picture he paints of you is not
wholly a false one. Sssh! Lucas. Hark! Attend to me! I resign myself to
it all! Dear, I must resign myself to it!