All those arguments as to Owen's ill course of life were forgotten; and she could only remember that she had acknowledged that she loved him, and that she was now acknowledging that she loved another.
But now Owen had made his accusation; and as it was not answered, he hardly knew how to proceed.

He walked about the room, endeavouring to think what he had better say next.
"I know this, Clara; it is your mother's doing, and not your own.

You could not bring yourself to be false, unless by her instigation." "No," said she; "you are wrong there.

It is not my mother's doing: what I have done, I have done myself." "Is it not true," he asked, "that your word was pledged to me?
Had you not promised me that you would be my wife ?" "I was very young," she said, falling back upon the only excuse which occurred to her at the moment as being possible to be used without incriminating him.
"Young! Is not that your mother's teaching?
Why, those were her very words when she came to me at my house.

I did not know that youth was any excuse for falsehood." "But it may be an excuse for folly," said Clara.
"Folly! what folly?
The folly of loving a poor suitor; the folly of being willing to marry a man who has not a large estate! Clara, I did not think that you could have learned so much in so short a time." All this was very hard upon her.