The look that accompanied his tone should have frozen her, but she only laughed.
"I know, I know," she said, wagging her hideous fat head at him.
"You would undo it all if you could. You would cast me out, like Rebecca, and marry your Sarah instead; but"—with slovenly triumph—"you can't. You can't, you know. I"—with a hideous leer at him—"am here, you see, and here I'll stick! You wish me dead, I know that; but I'll not die to please you."
(If she had only known!)
She looked up at her husband out of her small, obstinate eyes—- looked at the tall, handsome, well-dressed man whose name she bore, yet who was so different to her in all ways. And he looked back at her.
A strange smile curled his lips.
"Wishes don't kill," said he, slowly. Now his voice was soft, refined, brutal.
"Good for me," returned she, with a hoarse chuckle, "or I wouldn't be long above ground. I know you! And as for that girl down there"—she paused, then went on with malicious intonation: "you may as well cease your funning in that quarter. I hear she's as good as engaged to that young fellow who took up Dr. Fulham's practice three months ago—Dr. Dillwyn."
"A very suitable match for her," said Darkham, after a second's pause that contained a thousand seconds of acute agony. He spoke coldly, evenly.
"Yes." She looked disappointed; her spleen had desired a larger fulfilment of its desire. "Suitable indeed, for both are paupers. But, for all you're so quiet, I don't believe you like it, eh? Dr. Dillwyn, you know, and you—-"