“By the pit, you mean, I suppose, Mr. Daunt’s love for me. As my father told you, I have known, my husband has known, from before my marriage, that he loved me. You did not only warn. You lied. About my husband,” Felicia’s eyes did not change, as she said the word, looking straight at Angela. Since the night before when her father had told her vile falsehoods she had felt not one doubt of Angela’s falsity. A white heat of utter scorn had never left her. She would have scorned her too much to see her had not her father’s frenzied belief pushed her to this elemental conflict. She would tell Angela again and again that she was a liar.
“How you hate me,” Angela now said.
“And how you hate me.”
“I do not. I pity you. I want to help you.”
“I will pity you if you confess that you have lied.”
“If it were to help you I could almost do it—though that would indeed be to lie. I believe that truth is the only helper. Your husband was paid to marry you.”
Felicia’s eyes received it unflinchingly.
“It may be so. Geoffrey is generous enough; Maurice is enough his friend to accept his help. I will ask him to tell me all the truth. Your implication was that my husband married me through pity.”
“You are very sure of people’s love for you.”
Angela saw herself lashed by the hatred of these two men, by the scorn of this woman whom they loved. Her voice shook.