“I wonder if you have learned to forgive as well as to forget,” said she.
“What on earth do you mean?” he cried. “You are a trifle distraite, are you not? What has forgiving or forgetting to do with what I have been saying?”
“The wretched man—I was thinking of him. You have forgotten a good deal of the past that others have remembered, but forgiveness—that is different.”
“Do you mean to ask me if my feelings are unchanged in respect of that ruffian—that wretch who killed the best man that ever lived in the world? If that is your question I can answer you. I stand here and tell you that no night passes without my cursing him and all that belongs to him. If he has a brother—if he has a wife—if he has a child—may they all suffer what”—
“No, no, no, no; for God's sake, don't say those words, Claude. You do not know what they mean. You cannot know.”
She had sprung from her chair and had caught the hand which he had clenched fiercely as he spoke.
“You cannot tell who it is that you are cursing,” she said imploringly. “No one can tell. He may have a wife—a child—would you have them suffer for the crime of their father?”
“I would have them suffer. It is not I, but God, who said 'unto the third and fourth generation.' I am on the side of God.”
“And this is the man whom I once loved!”
He started as she flung his hand from her—the fingers were still bent—and walked across the room, striking her palms together passionately.