To show I love you,—yes, still love you—love you

In spite of Luca and what's come to him

—Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts,
White sneering old reproachful face and all!
We'll even quarrel, Love, at times, as if
We still could lose each other, were not tied
By this—conceive you?

Ottima. Love!

Sebald. Not tied so sure!
Because though I was wrought upon, have struck
His insolence back into him—am I
So surely yours?—therefore, forever yours?

Ottima. Love, to be wise, (one counsel pays another)

Should we have—months ago—when first we loved,
For instance that May morning we two stole
Under the green ascent of sycamores—
If we had come upon a thing like that
Suddenly...

Sebald. 'A thing'—there again—'a thing!'

Ottima. Then, Venus' body, had we come upon
My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpse

Within there, at his couch-foot, covered close—
Would you have pored upon it? Why persist
In poring now upon it? For 'tis here
As much as there in the deserted house:
You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me,
Now he is dead I hate him worse—I hate...

Dare you stay here? I would go back and hold
His two dead hands, and say, I hate you worse
Luca, than...

Sebald. Off, off; take your hands off mine!
'Tis the hot evening—off! oh, morning, is it?