"She never loved you!" she cried. "She never cared for you—or even thought of you! She wasn't fit to touch you—to look at you!"
His face was aflame.
"Stop!" he shouted.
"I hate her!" she declared fiercely. "I hate her memory! I'm glad she's dead!"
He lunged forward from his chair, and seized her. In his fury he nearly struck her.
"As God's above us," he panted, "one more word...." His rage choked him. The words jammed in his throat.
She wrenched herself free. His arms dropped to his sides. He reeled dizzily.
"You may do what you like to me," she cried passionately. "I tell you—I'm glad she's dead! She deserved to die. She was wicked and cruel. I think God Himself destroyed her."
He sank back into his chair weakly. A sob shook him.
"God did not destroy her," he said slowly. "God never destroys. He only builds. It is men and women who destroy."