“Yes!”
“And you do not love him?”
“He’s a man,” she cried, “a man who would not make a jest of a woman’s name.”
“And even so, you do not love him, because that would not be possible.”
“You have no right to say that,” and she wrenched her hand free.
“I have the right, the right you gave me.”
“I—I gave you no right.”
“You have. You gave me that right, Joan, when you gave me your heart. You do not love that man, because you love me!”
Back into the white face came all the hardness and coldness that he so well knew. She rose; she looked down on him.
“It is—untrue. I do not. I have but one feeling for you always—always—the same, the one feeling. I despise you. How could I love a thing that I despise?”