They looked into each other's faces—these two, who but a few short months ago had been all in all to each other—and the dead fire was not colder than their looks.
"Well, Anna," he said sneeringly, "what's your game? You've been hanging about here ever since I came to the neighborhood. How much do you want to go away?"
"Nothing that you could give me, Lennox Sanderson. My only wish is that I might be spared the sight of you."
"Don't beat around the bush, Anna; is it money, or what? You are not foolish enough to try to compel me to marry you?"
"Nothing could be further from my mind. I did think once of compelling you to right the wrong you have done me, but that is past. It is buried in the grave with my child."
"Then the child is dead?" He came over to the fireplace where she stood, but she drew away from him.
"You have nothing to fear from me, Lennox Sanderson. The love I felt once is dead, and I have no feeling for you now but contempt."
"You need not rub it in like that, Anna. I was perfectly willing to do the square thing by you always, but you flared up, went away, and Heaven only knew what became of you. It's bad enough to have things made unpleasant for me in Boston on your account without having you queering my plans here."
"Boston—I never told anyone in Boston."
"No, but that row got into the papers about Langdon and the Tremonts cut me."