desires at any rate--as he was before you married us.

MANDERS. And those-those wild oats--those irregularities--those
excesses, if you like--you call "a dissolute life"?

MRS. ALVING. Our doctor used the expression.

MANDERS. I do not understand you.

MRS. ALVING. You need not.

MANDERS. It almost makes me dizzy. Your whole married life, the
seeming union of all these years, was nothing more than a hidden
abyss!

MRS. ALVING. Neither more nor less. Now you know it.

MANDERS. This is--this is inconceivable to me. I cannot grasp it! I
cannot realise it! But how was it possible to--? How could such a
state of things be kept secret?

MRS. ALVING. That has been my ceaseless struggle, day after day.
After Oswald's birth, I thought Alving seemed to be a little better.
But it did not last long. And then I had to struggle twice as hard,
fighting as though for life or death, so that nobody should know
what sort of man my child's father was. And you know what power
Alving had of winning people's hearts. Nobody seemed able to believe
anything but good of him. He was one of those people whose life does
not bite upon their reputation. But at last, Mr. Manders--for you
must know the whole story--the most repulsive thing of all happened.