"Anybody would think, you know," he told her, "that we have behaved terribly."
"We have. We have."
Her mouth was drawn with pain; her eyes were wild.
"But we've not," Guy contradicted, mustering desperately all the forces of normality to allay Pauline's over-strained ideas. "We've not," he repeated. "You don't understand, darling Pauline, that when you talk like that you give the impression of something that is unimaginable of you. It's dreadful to have to talk about this, but it's better that we should discuss it than that you should torture yourself needlessly like this."
"It's not what we've done so much," she said. "It's what you've made me think about you."
Guy laughed rather miserably.
"That seems a very trifling reason for so much ... well, you know, it's very nearly hysteria."
"To you, perhaps," she retorted, bitterly. "To me it's like madness."
"I can't understand these morbid fancies of yours. What have you been doing in Oxford? Ah, I know," he shouted, in a rage of sudden divination. "You've been talking to a priest.... Oh, if I could burn every interfering scoundrel who...." The scene swept over him, choking the words in his throat with indignant impotent jealousy. "You've been to Confession. And what good have you got from it, but lies, lies?"
"I've always been to Confession," Pauline answered, coldly.