"And there, you know what happened there," she said, as they stood in the darkness. She clung nearer and nearer to him. "But you know, Beverly, you know, that it was not until my senses were maddened by wine," her voice grew low and lower,—"that I gave my person to you."
In the darkness she laid her head upon his breast, and put her arms about his neck, her bosom all the while throbbing madly against his chest.
"O, you know, that in the noble letters, which you wrote to me from time to time—letters breathing a pure spiritual atmosphere,—you spoke of your love for me as something far above all common loves, refined and purified, and separate from all thought of physical impurity. And yet,—and yet,—last night when half crazed by jealousy, I went with you to the place which you named, you took the moment, when my senses were completely delirious with wine, to treat me as though I had been your wife, as though you had been the father of my child."
She sobbed aloud, and would have fallen to the floor had he not held her in his arms.
"O, Joanna, you vex yourself without cause," he said, soothingly,—"I love you,—you know I love you—"
"O, but would it not be a dreadful thing, if you had been deceived in regard to these letters!"
"Deceived?"
"Suppose, for instance, some one had forged them, and imposed them upon you as veritable letters—"
"Forged? This is folly my love."
"In that case, you and I would be guilty, O, guilty beyond power of redemption, and Eugene would be an infamously murdered man."