He got up with a quiet movement. "Well, why?" he said.
Her eyes flashed fire. "Because," she spoke very quickly, scarcely
pausing for breath, "you have turned her from a happy girl into a
miserable woman. I knew it would come. I saw it coming, I
knew--long before she did--that she had married the wrong man. And
I knew what she would suffer when she found out. She tried hard
not to find out; she did her best to blind herself. But she had to
face it at last. You forced her to open her eyes. And now--she
knows the truth. She will do her duty, because you are her husband
and there is no escape. But it will be bondage to her as long as
she lives. You have taken all the youth and the joy out of her
life."
There was a fierce ring of passion in the words. For once Matilda
Merston glowed with life. There was even something superb in her
reckless denunciation of the man before her.
He heard it without stirring a muscle, his eyes fixed unwaveringly
upon her, grim and cold as steel. When she ceased to speak, he
still stood motionless, almost as if he were waiting for something.
She also waited, girt for battle, eager for the fray. But he
showed no sign of anger, and gradually her enthusiasm began to
wane. She bent, panting a little and began to smooth out a piece
of the grey flannel with nervous exactitude.
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