He did not hear. An idea had come to him, one that had visited him in Melbourne, again in New York, to desist from further effort, to leave her where she was, behind the barriers she had raised. At the moment he believed he desired her no longer, loved her no more, had never loved her at all. Occupied with the idea he looked at this woman who had ruined her life, ruined his own.
She had been saying something, what he did not know nor, self-centered in his anger, did he care.
In his pocket was a revolver. He felt of it and infuriatedly cried:
“You ought to be shot.”
“Gulian!”
“You are on a par with the beast you took up with.”
“I took his name, Gulian, his name alone.”
It was her turn to be angry. The flush had gone, she was pale again and she had abandoned the chair’s support. She stood upright, confronting him with that purity which was hers.
“I have no more been his wife than I was yours.”