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Then in ungovernable anger, suffering, remorse, I turned upon her where she sat: “It is you who killed him! Why do you come here to blame me? And now you pretend to be sorry. You felt no pity when pity would have done some good. Trifler! Hypocrite!”
“It is false!” she cried, her words flashing from her whole countenance, her form drawn up to repel the shock of the blow.
“Did you not ask me for him?”
“No!”
“Oh, deny it all! It is a falsehood—invented by me on the spot. You know nothing of it! You did not ask me to do this! And when I have yielded, you have not run to reproach me here and to cry, ‘How could you? How could you?’”
“No! No! Every word of it—”
“Untruth added to it all! Oh, that I should have been so deceived, blinded, taken in!”
