He stood enjoying the effect of his words: Kyllikki staggered as if struck—exactly as he had intended.
The girl was trembling in every limb. She felt a loathing for the man before her—and for all his sex. These men, that lied about women, or cried out about what was theirs on their wedding night, raved of their happiness, demanding purity and innocence of others, but not of themselves … she felt that there could be no peace, no reconciliation between them now, only bitterness and the ruin of all they had hoped for together.
"And what then?" she asked coldly, with lifted head.
"What then?" cried Olof wildly. "What…."
"Yes. Go on. That was only one. Are there no more who have told you the same thing?"
"More? My God—I could kill you now!"
"Do!" She faced him defiantly, and went on with icy calm: "And how many girls are there who can say the same of you?"
Olof started as if he had been stabbed. He put his hands to his head, and strode violently up and down, muttering wildly: "Kill you—yes, kill you and myself too, kill, kill, kill…."
So he went on for a while, then, flinging himself down on the sofa, he tore open his coat, snatched off the white rosette he wore, and threw it down, crying out in agony: "Why must I suffer like this? Was there ever such a wedding night? It is hell, hell…!"
Kyllikki stood calmly watching him. She was gradually feeling more sure of herself now. At last she moved towards him.