Time was I loved that man o' your'n; time was he swore I was all to him.

He was a liar from his birth.

It's your natur' to think I'm jealous; a better woman would know I'm _sick_--sick wi' shame an' scorn o' mysel'.

That man, there, has kissed me, oft'n an' oft'n--kissed me 'pon the mouth.

Bein' what you are, you can't understand how those kisses taste now, when I look at _you_." "Well, I'm sure!" "Hold your blasted tongue!" roared William.