All passion of
which Arnold Jacks was capable sounded in the voice with which he
now spoke.
"I shall never pardon you, because I shall never feel you have
injured me. Say to me what you want to say. I will listen. What can
I do better than listen to your voice? I won't argue; I won't
contradict. Relieve your mind, and let us see what it all comes to
in the end."
Irene had a creeping sense of fear. This tone was so unlike what she
had expected. Physical weakness threatened a defeat which would have
nothing to do with her will. If she yielded now, there would be no
recovering her self-respect, no renewal of her struggle for liberty.
She wished to rise, to face him upon her feet, yet had not the
courage. His manner dictated hers. They were not playing parts on a
stage, but civilised persons discussing their difficulties in a
soft-carpeted drawing-room. The only thing in her favour was that
the afternoon drew on, and the light thickened. Veiled in dusk, she
hoped to speak more resolutely.
"Must I repeat my letter?"
"Yes, if you feel sure that it still expresses your mind."
"It does. I made a grave mistake. In accepting your offer of
marriage, I was of course honest, but I didn't know what it meant; I
didn't understand myself. Of course it's very hard on you that your
serious purpose should have for its only result to teach me that I
was mistaken. If I didn't know that you have little patience with
such words, I should say that it shows something wrong in our social
habits.
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