“‘What is your programme, madam, if I may ask?’ I said, taking a chair which stood opposite to her.
“‘To leave this house!’ she said, hoarsely.
“‘Ah! you are tired of me, then?’
“‘I am sick of you!—have long been sick of you!’
“‘Indeed!’ I said. ‘That is curious! I thought our marriage was a love affair, madam; at least you induced me to suppose so. What, then, has suddenly changed your sentiments in my direction? Am I a monster? Have I been cruel to you? Am I unworthy of you?’
“‘I hate and despise you!’
“It was the hoarse growl of a wild animal rather than the voice of a woman. She was imperial at that moment—and I acknowledge, Surry, that she was ‘game to the last!’
“‘Ah! you hate me, you despise me!’ I said. ‘I have had the misfortune to incur madam’s displeasure! No more connubial happiness—no more endearments and sweet confidences—no more loving words, and glances—no more bliss!’
“She continued to glare at me.
“‘I am unworthy of madam; I see that clearly,’ I went on. ‘I am only a poor little, plain little, insignificant little country clodhopper! I am nothing—a mere nobody,—while madam is—shall I tell you, madam? While you are a convict—a bigamist,—and a poisoner! Are you not?’