She stitched quietly, wistfully, for some time.

Then she looked up at him--a long look of reproach, and sombre accusation, and wifely tenderness.

He turned his face aside.
"You know you've been wrong to me, don't you ?" she said, half wistfully, half menacing.
He felt her wistfulness and her menace tearing him in his bowels and loins.
"You do know, don't you ?" she insisted, still with the wistful appeal, and the veiled threat.
"You do, or you would answer," she said.

"You've still got enough that's right in you, for you to know." She waited.

He sat still, as if drawn by hot wires.
Then she slipped across to him, put her arms round him, sank on her knees at his side, and sank her face against his thigh.
"Say you know how wrong you are.