“My God! mad—this woman is mad!” he said, in a whisper that sounded like a gasp.
She made no attempt to reply. He went to her.
“What have you said?” he asked. “I don't seem to recollect. Did you say anything?”
“I stated a fact,” she replied. “I am sincere when I say that I would to God it were not true.”
“She—she—my beloved—the daughter—it is a lie—you have told me a lie—confess that it is a lie!”
“I cannot, even though you should make your fingers meet upon my arm!”
He almost flung her away from him. He had grasped her by the wrist. He covered his face with his hands. She looked at her wrist—the red marks over the white flesh.
“I'll not believe it!” he cried suddenly. “Agnes, Agnes; you will confess that it is a falsehood?”
“Alas! Alas!” she cried,
“I'll not believe it. Proofs—where are your proofs?”