Mr. Liston paused in his walk and strove to read her face.
"Both?" he said. "No, Miss Bourdon. She, perhaps, but you do not. You believed yourself his wife, in all honor and truth; to you no stain of guilt attaches. But all the blacker is his dastardly betrayal of you. Without even the excuse of loving you, he forced you from home, only to gratify his brutal malice against Richard Gilbert. He told me so himself; out of his own mouth he stands condemned."
She shivered suddenly, she shrank as though he had struck her. From first to last she had been fooled; that was, perhaps, the cruelest, sharpest blow of all, to know that Laurence Thorndyke had never for one poor instant loved her, that hatred, not love, had been at the bottom of it all.
"Don't let us speak of it," she said, hoarsely. "I—I can't bear it. O Heaven! what have I done?"
She covered her face with her hands, a dry, shuddering sob shaking her from head to foot.
"If I could only die," she thought, with a pang of horrible agony and fear; "If I dared only die!"
"Listen to me, Mrs. Laurence," Mr. Liston said, steadily, and as if he read her thoughts. "Don't despair; you have something to live for yet."
"Something to live for?" she repeated, in the same stifled tones. "What?"
"Revenge."
"What?"