It was almost impossible.

If he had not loved Matilde Macomer still, he would have turned even then and spoken the truth, come what might.

But that remained.

He gathered the weakness of his sin into an unreal and evil strength, as best he could, and for Matilde's sake he spoke such words as he could find--lies against himself, against the poor rag of honour in which he still believed, even while he was tearing it from the nakedness of a sin it could not clothe--lies against love, against manhood, against God.
"I have loved you long, Veronica," he began.

"I had not hoped to see this day." The awful struggle of his own soul against its last destruction sent a strong vibration through his softened voice, and lent the base lie he spoke such deadly beauty as might dwell in the face of Antichrist, to deceive all living things to sin.
He was still standing, and his hand lay out towards Veronica, on the shelf before the clock.