In the nights that followed, instead of sinking immediately to sleep as was his wont, he lay awake, visioning her face and that blue blaze of wrath, and conning her words over and over.
They rang with sincerity.

The reproach was genuine.

She had meant just what she said.

And still he pondered.
The next time he encountered her she had turned away from him angrily and contemptuously.

And yet again, she came to him to beg his pardon, and she dropped a hint of a man somewhere, sometime,--she said not how,--who had left her with no desire to live.