She nodded. "And, oh, Claude, I didn't mean it. I swear to you I didn't mean it. I knew he'd tell you. I was always afraid of him. But I just thought it then—just for a minute. I couldn't have done it—"
He had but the dimmest suspicion of what she meant, but he felt it well to say: "You could have done it, Rosie, and you would. You're that kind."
She took one timid step toward him, clasping her hands more passionately. "Oh, Claude, have mercy on me. If you knew what it is to be me! Even if I had done it, it wouldn't have been because I loved you any the less. It would have been for father and mother and Matt—and—and everything."
The way in which the words rent her made him the more cruel. They made him the more cruel because they rent him, too. "That doesn't make any difference, Rosie. You would have done it just the same. As it is, you were false to me—"
"Only that once, Claude!"
"And if you want me to have mercy on you, you'll have to tell me everything that happened—the very worst."
"The worst that happened was then."
"Then? When? There were so many times."
"But the other times he didn't say anything at all. He just came. I never dreamt—"
"But if you had dreamt, you would have played another sort of hand. Now, wouldn't you?"