“I still believe it,” I replied.
“How brutally manly it is of you to be so plain and concise! I can thank you, at least, for your frankness, liar as you are! You accused me of trumping up a designing untrue story of my life when I first met you, for the purpose of winning your sympathy. Do you still believe it?”
“I still believe it.”
“How can I thank you? I know how I could repay you if I were a man. It is fortunate for you that I am not. You accused me of setting a snare for your son, who knew the true particulars of my life, you said, and who wished to remove the shame I had brought upon your name. My memory is not bad, is it? Do you still believe all this?”
“I still believe it!”
I think if she could have stabbed or poisoned me, and caused me to die at that moment, she would not have spared me.
“Of course,” she said, “you have seen your son.”
“To my grief,” I replied, “I have not. I should be happier if I could see him and ask his forgiveness for the injustice I have done him.”
“The injustice you have done him through me?”