"Thou art a saint, if thou canst have perfect faith without evidence or reassurance, and he is not thy husband, but thy idol." He sighs, steadying himself by the rise and fall of Laertes's chest. "Forgive me my grim oracle, but this is what I foresee. He will fear so much to disappoint thee, he will look for any sign of wavering in thee, whether thou voicest it or nay. Thou wilt cloak thy doubts to spare him agony, and he will take thy silence to mean my husband will not tell me when I have offended him most. He will invent offenses on his own, and they will take the shape of his self-hatred, what he already knows and regrets in himself. What he cannot change, he will hide from thee. The more he hides, the more thou wilt see him pull from thee, the greater thy doubts will grow. If I am wrong, then tell me. Perhaps thou art that very saint, to bear all his doubts while resisting thine own, and like Job thou wilt be rewarded sevenfold. But even Job had questions."