VICAR. I think you are right, Martha. I am not well.

AUNTIE [alarmed]. Not the trouble with your heart again?

VICAR. No; I fancy it goes deeper than that!

AUNTIE. William! What do you mean?

VICAR [suddenly facing her]. Martha! Do you know the sort of man
you have been living with all these years? Do you see through me?
Do you know me?--No: don't speak: I see your answer already--Your
own love blinds you! Ha! I am a good man!--I don't drink, I don't
swear, I am respectable, I don't blaspheme like Bletchley! Oh yes,
and I am a scholar: I can cackle in Greek: I can wrangle about
God's name: I know Latin and Hebrew and all the cursed little
pedantries of my trade! But do you know what I am? Do you know
what your husband is in the sight of God? He is a LIAR!

AUNTIE. William!

VICAR. A liar! I heard it in my ears as I stood up before Christ's
altar in the church this morning, reciting my miserable creed! I
heard it in my prayers! I heard it whilst I tasted . . . whilst I
drank . . . whilst I . . .

[He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands.]

AUNTIE. Oh, you are ill!

VICAR [breaking down]. O wretched man that I am! Who shall