Brent went on:
"One would think THAT would change things. But no. Neither of us wanted her. Neither of us love her. Children should come of love—not hate. And she is a child of hate." He paused, looking intently at Ethel. She looked understandingly at him, then dropped her eyes.
Brent went on as if following up an advantage: "She sits in her little chair, her small, wrinkled, old disillusioned face turned to us, with the eyes watching us accusingly. She submits to caresses as though they were distasteful: as if she knew they were lies. At times she pushes the nearing face away with her little baby fingers." He stopped, watching her eagerly. Her eyes were down.
"I shouldn't tell you this. It's terrible. I see it in your face. What are you thinking?"
"I'm sorry," replied Ethel simply.
"For me?"
"For your wife."
"MY WIFE?" he repeated, aghast.
"Yes," said Ethel. "Aren't you? No? Are you just sorry for yourself?"
Brent turned impatiently away. So this laying-open the wound in his life was nothing to Ethel. Instead of pity for him all it engendered in her was sorrow for his wife.