His scorn--his resentment--were they not the expiation, the penalty she had looked forward to all along ?--and with that determination to bear them calmly?
Yet, now that they were there in front of her, they stung.
"So that--for all those weeks--while you were letting me write as I did, while you were letting me conceive you and your action as I did, you had this on your mind?
You never gave me a hint; you let me plead; you let me regard you as wrapped up in the unselfish end; you sent me those letters of his--those most misleading letters!--and all the time--" "But I meant to tell you--I always meant to tell you," she cried passionately.

"I would never have gone on with a secret like that--not for your sake--but for my own." "Yet you did go on so long," he said steadily; "and my agony of mind during those weeks--my feeling towards you--my--" He broke off, wrestling with himself.

As for her, she had fallen back in her chair, physically incapable of anything more.
He walked over to her side and took up his hat.
"You have done me wrong," he said, gazing down upon her.

"I pray God you may not do yourself a greater wrong in the future! Give me leave to write to you once more, or to send my friend Edward Hallin to see you.
Then I will not trouble you again." He waited, but she could give him no answer.

Her form as she lay there in this physical and moral abasement printed itself upon his heart.