“No wonder,” he said.
“No,” she cried. “It IS no wonder, with a nature like yours: weak and unnatural and evil. It IS no wonder.”
She became quiet—and then started to cry again, into her apron. Aaron waited. He felt physically weak.
“And who knows what you've been doing all these months?” she wept. “Who knows all the vile things you've been doing? And you're the father of my children—the father of my little girls—and who knows what vile things he's guilty of, all these months?”
“I shouldn't let my imagination run away with me,” he answered. “I've been playing the flute in the orchestra of one of the theatres in London.”
“Ha!” she cried. “It's more than that. Don't think I'm going to believe you. I know you, with your smooth-sounding lies. You're a liar, as you know. And I know you've been doing other things besides play a flute in an orchestra. You!—as if I don't know you. And then coming crawling back to me with your lies and your pretense. Don't think I'm taken in.”
“I should be sorry,” he said.
“Coming crawling back to me, and expecting to be forgiven,” she went on. “But no—I don't forgive—and I can't forgive—never—not as long as I live shall I forgive what you've done to me.”
“You can wait till you're asked, anyhow,” he said.
“And you can wait,” she said. “And you shall wait.” She took up her sewing, and stitched steadily, as if calmly. Anyone glancing in would have imagined a quiet domestic hearth at that moment. He, too, feeling physically weak, remained silent, feeling his soul absent from the scene.