“William, you mustn't feel so. It isn't right.”
“I know it. But when did I ever do anything right, I'd like to know? I wish I could hate her as I hate myself, or as she hates me.”
“William, she does not hate you.”
“How do you know she don't?”
“Because she would have told me. She is very truthful.”
“I know it. She gave me my walking papers in a jiffy. I wish I could hate her.”
“William, do you promise not to get angry, if I tell you why Mary declined your offer?”
“Say on. You couldn't well make a burning furnace any hotter. I am too mad already.”
“Well, I'll tell you. She likes you, but is afraid of you.”
“Afraid? afraid?” said he, aghast—“why! that is awful! I, an object of fear, when I worship the ground she treads on! But, how? What have I done? When did I frighten her?”