Henrik Ibsen 
Rosmersholm 

Rosmer (coming closer to her). Rebecca—suppose I asked you now—will you be my second wife? Rebecca (is speechless for a moment, then gives a cry of joy). Your wife! Yours—! I! Rosmer. Yes—let us try what that will do. We two shall be one. There must no longer be any empty place left by the dead in this house. Rebecca. I—in Beata’s place—? Rosmer. And then that chapter of my life will be closed—completely closed, never to be reopened. Rebecca (in a low, trembling voice). Do you think so, John? Rosmer. It must be so! It must! I cannot—I will not—go through life with a dead body on my back. Help me to throw it off, Rebecca; and then let us stifle all memories in our sense of freedom, in joy, in passion. You shall be to me the only wife I have ever had. Rebecca (controlling herself). Never speak of this, again. I will never be your wife.