She lifted blurred eyes. “No,” she panted, “but you can’t—make me—forgive—you can’t take away the—empty house—or—my God!—the pain in my heart!”
“Have the other boy back,” he flung out, “I am willing.”
“No, no,” she shrieked. “Harry’s murderer—I will never see him again. I wish he was dead—I wish I was dead!”
She burst into uncontrolled hysterical sobs and buried her face in the chair cushions. Her husband’s face darkened furiously; he moved away from her, his teeth in his lip. The Viscount looked up from his desk.
“If you have not a Cicero,” he said, “perhaps you have an Epictetus? This allusion I must verify.”
The Master of Stair walked impatiently to the shelves and finding a volume gave it to his father, then he turned to his wife.
“Madam, cease that wailing,” he said. “You will try me beyond endurance.”
She made a show of stifling her sobs, and rose, dabbing at her eyes; her fair hair and her white dress seemed to gather all the light in the room; she gleamed from head to foot.
“You take no thought of me,” she said wretchedly. “Neither you nor my lord there seem to think—there—is any pity to be felt for—me.” She gave a bitter glance toward the placid figure of the Viscount. “He does not care,” she panted, “nor do you—what have I done to be so punished?” She turned her tear-blurred face to her husband. “I do not come of a cursed family,” she said hoarsely. “Why should I be dragged into your evil fortunes? Why should I pay for your wicked blood, my God, why?”
She clasped her hands passionately in the intensity of the revolt of a weak thing; her eyes were unnaturedly dilated, her bosom rose and fell with her struggling breath; terror and aversion were expressed in every line of her shrinking figure.