"Behind a screen in the great hall. The women are cruel."
Klussman hated the women. He kissed his wife with the first kiss since their separation, and all the toils of war failed to unman him like that kiss.
"But there was that child!" he groaned.
"That was not my child," said Marguerite.
"The baby brought here with you!"
"It was not mine."
"Whose was it?"
"It was a drunken soldier's. His wife died. They made me take care of it," said Marguerite resentfully.
"Why didn't you tell me that?" exclaimed Klussman. "You made me lie to my lady!"
Marguerite had no answer. He understood her reticence, and the degradation which could not be excused.