“It's only fair,” the duchess remarked.
“From her to that woman! It may be priceless. Stop! Let me see what remains. Amalia! are you mad? Oh! you false friend. I would have sacrificed my right hand to see it.”
“Try and love me still,” said the duchess, letting her take one unburnt corner, and crumble the black tissuey fragments to smut in her hands.
There was no writing; the unburnt corner of the letter was a blank.
Laura fooled the wretched ashes between her palms. “Good-night,” she said. “Your face will be of this colour to me, my dear, for long.”
“I cannot behave disgracefully, even to keep your love, my beloved,” said the duchess.
“You cannot betray a German, you mean,” Laura retorted. “You could let a spy into the house.”
“That was a childish matter—merely to satisfy a whim.”
“I say you could let a spy into the house. Who is to know where the scruples of you women begin? I would have given my jewels, my head, my husband's sword, for a sight of that letter. I swear that it concerns us. Yes, us. You are a false friend. Fish-blooded creature! may it be a year before I look on you again. Hide among your miserable set!”
“Judge me when you are cooler, dearest,” said the duchess, seeking to detain the impetuous sister of her affection by the sweeping skirts; but Laura spurned her touch, and went from her.