"You have never permitted me to explain that."
"It is not susceptible of explanation."
"It is—"
"I must take counsel of my senses, Mr. Bordine," persisted Rose, trampling fiercely on her own heart. "I know that that woman was your wife. I heard enough to convince me of this. Your perfidy ought to make me hate you."
"And you do hate me, Rose?"
"No—"
"Thank Heaven for that."
"Leave me now, Mr. Bordine."
"Mr. Bordine!" he cried bitterly. "It is August no longer. You would drive me from you without permitting me to explain. You are unjust, Rose."
"Never. Would to Heaven I could be!"