He was convulsed; the veins started on his forehead; his chest heaved laboriously, and his eyes were dilated with fury, but he uttered no sound.
"Your love is degradation! Your soul is as ignoble as your manners are brutal! I have put up with this too long. I have been contaminated by your presence, and now, I hate you!"
A sort of gurgle, like the death rattle, sounded in his throat; his face was purple.
"I hate you!" she added. "Is that clear? Do you understand me now!"
With his eyes fixed horribly upon her furious countenance, he put his handkerchief to his mouth; when he removed it, she saw that it was stained with blood.
A sudden sickness overcame her, and she trembled.
He did not speak another word, but staggered rather than walked towards the door. Slowly he descended the stairs, and with his handkerchief still at his mouth reached home. The paroxysm of passion had burst a small bloodvessel.
Left to herself, Mrs. Vyner sank on a couch shivering, and her teeth chattering together from the combined effects of rage, excitement, and fear.
The heavy pall of a terrible doom seemed stretched over her future: dark, mysterious, and awful. She shuddered as she thought of what had passed, and only recovered a slight decree of calmness as the thought occurred to her that perhaps that broken bloodvessel might put an end to him!