“Pity—do not pity me; I will not be pitied by you. Mock me if you will; it is your turn now. You prophesied that it would come; now it is here.”
“At any rate, you are still comfortable in your own house,” said Angela, nervously, anxious to change the subject, and not knowing what to say.
“Oh! yes, I have money enough, if that is what you mean. My husband threatened to leave me destitute, but fear of public opinion—and I hear that he has run away, and is not well thought of now—or perhaps of myself, cripple as I am, caused him to change his mind. But do not let us talk of that poor creature. I sent for you here for a purpose. Where is your lover?”
Angela turned pale and trembled.
“What, do you not know, or are you tired of him?”
“Tired of him! I shall never be tired of him; but he has gone.”
“Shall I tell you where to find him?”
“You would not if you could; you would deceive me again.”
“No, oddly enough, I shall not. I have no longer any object in doing so. When I was bent upon marrying you to George Caresfoot, I lashed myself into hating you; now I hate you no longer, I respect you— indeed, I have done so all along.”
“Then, why did you work me such a bitter wrong?”