Cornelius saw this; he turned away abruptly—he walked up and down the room—he hesitated; at length he stopped before me, took my unresisting hand in his, made me sit down on the couch, and sat down by me.
"Come," he said in a much milder tone, "I see what it is, I have terrified you—you are afraid to confess—that is it—is it not?"
"No, Cornelius."
"What is it then? dread of punishment?"
I shook my head.
"Shame?" he said in a low tone. "No? what then?"
"It is that I did not do it, Cornelius."
He dropped my hand.
"Take care!" he said in a low voice, menacing spite of its seeming gentleness; "take care! I have been patient, but I can be provoked. I may forgive an act of passion, of jealousy, of envy even, but I cannot forgive a lie."
I loved him, but my blood rose at this.