“Very well,” she said bitterly. “If you can be determined, so can I. I shall demand my child in court. We shall see who has the better right to him.”
“You would not dare.”
“You shall see.” She started toward the door.
“You are making a terrible mistake,” he warned her.
She paused, turning to him. “No,” she said slowly. “It is you who are making the mistake. I came here with nothing but love, and sorrow, and regret in my heart. You have turned them all to hate, with your cruelty—your brutality. You have tried to hurt me through my love for my little boy, and I hate you for it—I hate you!” She swept toward the door, weeping hysterically.
“I have asked you to do nothing but what is right, and you know it.”
“No—I do not know it. Is it right to keep me from my child? Is it right to ask me to sacrifice his whole future? If that is right—I want none of it.” She placed her hand upon the door-knob, and turned it. Donald followed her, an ominous look in his eyes. “Edith—where are you going?” he demanded.
“I am going back to New London. If you have any regard for me, if you have any regard for your child, you will come to me there.” She threw the door open, and stood upon the threshold.