“You would have kept me enchanted for my beauty!” she said, with proud scorn.
Her words and her look roused my indignation.
“There was no beauty left in you,” I said.
“Why, then, again, did you not let me alone?”
“Because you were of my own kind.”
“Of YOUR kind?” she cried, in a tone of utter contempt.
“I thought so, but find I was mistaken!”
“Doubtless you pitied me!”
“Never had woman more claim on pity, or less on any other feeling!”
With an expression of pain, mortification, and anger unutterable, she turned from me and stood silent. Starless night lay profound in the gulfs of her eyes: hate of him who brought it back had slain their splendour. The light of life was gone from them.