MILDRED. You wrong him, Guendolen.
GUENDOLEN. He's proud, confess; so proud with brooding o'er The light of his interminable line, An ancestry with men all paladins, And women all...
MILDRED. Dear Guendolen, 'tis late! When yonder purple pane the climbing moon Pierces, I know 'tis midnight.
GUENDOLEN. Well, that Thorold Should rise up from such musings, and receive One come audaciously to graft himself Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw, No slightest spot in such an one...
MILDRED. Who finds A spot in Mertoun?
GUENDOLEN. Not your brother; therefore, Not the whole world.
MILDRED. I am weary, Guendolen. Bear with me!
MILDRED. Oh no, kind! But I would rest.