Written in a different style, I think you can tell.

[Author's Note: This was fun as hell to write. This style has strained the fiber that is my- dammit, I'm doing it again.]

Marcus: I am taking my leave of you. Thrice has mine heart been pierced by the vices you so willingly wield: lust, avarice and pride, intertwined and oblique, and thrice have I fallen as a fool at your feet, giving welcome to pain unspeakable and marks on my heart, blemishes of alleged adulation.

Angela: Might I make amends for those actions, I beg of thee: extenuate and obliterate these wrongdoings, 'twas hardly my intention, for adultery is high treason on love, the most sacred item in this world.

Marcus: Items! Items! Hold your tongue, for love is not an item, as I am not an item. As the petal of a rose, so caught in a morning draft is no item, neither is the love that I had felt for thee. Communal items are naught but items, just as I held that you were no item. Now that facade has faded, averting these eyes towards truth! Exterior siren, interior witch, I cannot fathom the depths of Abadonn that await thee, and I cannot wish the least of them upon any man, save not the knave that shall end my very existence.

Angela: You speak anger; regain yourself lest you raise undeniable remarks!

Marcus: I speak truth, not anger! Anger would not allow thee to beckon me here today! Anger leaves a trail too easy to follow, killing all in its wake and conflagrating all interferences!

Angela: You are beside yourself Marcus, take leave of me and ne'er return, lest your head clear and thesis pierce thy deep crown! Such treacherous thoughts I cannot bear, I prithee, defile my ears no more!

Marcus: I take my leave of you! I need not bid you adieu, for I sha'nt return to this domain of lies.

[Exeunt Marcus]

Angela: Under what light did I suggest my love to him? Under what pretense does affection contrive from care and value, courtship from friendship and love from mere concern? Was I assertive; was my display so lewd to suggest that he was my desire? For how long hath he chased me, making destination between these sheets of mine? What actions have this infatuation, nay, this obsession, corrupted? If t'weren't for my love, then why? But he knows, he must know, my engagement. We speak of it all too much, and he knows it all. My problems may as well be his, as his mind deals with each a near-equal concern. What have I done, what have I done?