"Yes—and if you had realised it yourself—But you don't, and your not realising it is what shocks me most."
"I don't realise it?" His smile, this time, was grim. "I should think I was in a better position for realising it than you."
"You don't realise the shame, the sin of it"
"Oh, don't I?" He turned to her, "Look here, whatever I've done, it's all over. I've taken my punishment, and repented in sackcloth and ashes. But you can't go on for ever repenting. It wears you out. It seems to me that, after all this time, I might be allowed to leave off the sackcloth and brush the ashes out of my hair. I want to forget it if I can. But you are never—never—going to forget it. And you are going to make me remember it every day of my life. Is that it?"
"It is not." She could not see herself thus hard and implacable. She had vowed that there was no duty that she would omit; and it was her duty to forgive; if possible, to forget. "I am going to try to forget it, as I have forgotten it before. But it will be very hard, and you must be patient with me. You must not remind me of it more than you can help."
"When have I—?"
She was silent.
"When?" he insisted.
She shook her head and turned away. A sudden impulse roused him, and he sprang after her. He grasped her wrist as she laid her hand on the door to open it. He drew her to him. "When?" he repeated. "How? Tell me."
She paused, gazing at him. He would have kissed her, hoping thus to make his peace with her; but she broke from him.