And the strange and terrible emphasis he put on the word ‘wife’ proved to me in the fraction of a second that in his heart I was not his wife. A fearful tragedy had swept away the structure of argument in favour of the rights of love which he had built over the original conventionality of his mind. Poor fellow!
He fell back into his chair and covered his eyes.
‘I thank God my mother didn’t live to see this!’ he cried.
And then he rushed to his bedroom and banged the door.
‘My poor girl!’ said Vicary, approaching me. ‘What can I—I’m awfully—’
I waved him away.
‘What’s that?’ he exclaimed, in a different voice, listening.
I ran to the bedroom, and saw Frank lifting a revolver.
‘You’ve brought me to this, Carlotta!’ he shouted.
I sprang towards him, but it was too late.