"Whatever I wish," I sneered. "What has my wish to do with you?"
She turned her head and looked into my eyes. "I have used you very ill, monsieur! I would make atonement, though, if you will let me!"
"How?"
"In any way you please."
"Would you marry me, mademoiselle?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"You conceive then that you owe me extraordinary reparation?"
"The greatest possible," she answered very softly.
I knew then that I loved her still, in spite of better cause for hate than love; but so deep was my bitterness and sense of injury against her, that I felt perfectly incapable of magnanimity.
"Your penitence is of sudden growth," I sneered.