“You led me to believe you cared for me—you gave to me looks and words such as you gave to no other man—you let me kiss your lips and did not say me nay; then, when I had grown bold through your kindness, and prayed the prayer that for long months had been on my lips, you slew me with cruel, scornful words.”
“I do not understand you,” she said, quietly.
“You will not, rather. I say again, Hermione, that you have played with me more cruelly than a cat plays with a mouse. You have laughed at my torture.”
“You are speaking most falsely,” she said.
“Let God judge between us. I lay the ruin of my life upon you. I say you deliberately deceived me.”
“I deny it,” she replied. “How could I be cruel or false to you. I have had no opportunity of being either. I have never heard of you or seen you but once since the evening of my birthday!”
“You have written to me, and it is of your written words I complain.”
“I have never in all my life written one line to you,” she said, earnestly.
“You have never written to me, Hermione? Ah, do not stain those lips with a lie!”
“I never have,” she repeated, with a deep-drawn sob. “Listen! I swear it before the most high God.”