He put her firmly away from him. "Oh, that be damned for a tale!" he exclaimed.
She shuddered. She had sought for pity—the last hope. In his voice there was none. If only she had had some one to guide her, some one to show her that it would all lead to this. She would have held him longer; she would still have held him, had she not given way to let jealousy wrestle with her soul, flinging it at his feet for him to trample on. Whatever had been the attitude of his mind before, she had afforded him no reason to leave her. Now there was cause—cause enough. She could only see the enormity of her guilt with his eyes, so completely did he dominate her. That a thousand circumstances had mitigated her action, had goaded her, as the unwilling beast is driven through the noise and smoke of battle, until, in the fury of fear, it plunges headlong towards the murderous cannonade—that these things should be taken into account did not enter her conception of the situation. She had wronged him. That was all she felt. And now, clutching his hand, raising it to her lips, drenching it with her tears and kisses, she begged his forgiveness, humbling herself down to the very dust.
He took his hand away. "What's the good of talking about forgiveness?" he said unemotionally. "The thing's done. I was not the only person who saw you."
"Your sister?"
"Yes; she pointed you out first."
"I might have guessed that!" Sally exclaimed bitterly.
"Why?"
"Because she hates me. She knew it 'ud make you angry if you saw me there."
"Oh, that's nonsense! Why should she hate you?"
"Why, because she wants you for that other girl. And you do care for her now, don't you—don't you?"