The gods see inside, she said.
Inside what?
Our hearts. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
And what can they find there to distress you? he asked, almost fiercely. She was hurting him with her failure to confide in him.
The bracelet— she began. It is broken, an love, too, mus die—an break!
From that day her melancholy grew rather than diminished. But she had roused her husbands suspicions, and her morbidness irritated rather than appealed to him. He felt that in some way he was being deceived. The day that he found her wardrobe neatly and carefully folded away in her queer little packing-case, as though in preparation for a journey, the full sense of her deceit dawned upon him. Hitherto when she had left him she had taken none of her belongings with her. He perceived it was now her intention to desert him utterly. He had served her purpose, apparently, and she was through with him.
His wrath burst its bounds. He had not known the capabilities of his angry passion. He tore the silken garments from the box with the fierce madness of one demented, then he pushed her into the room, and showed her where they lay scattered.
The meaning of this? he demanded, white to the lips with the intensity of his passion.
She remained mute. She did not even trouble to mock or laugh at him, nor would she weep. She seemed dazed and bewildered, and he, infuriated against her, said things which rankled in his conscience for years afterwards.
Does a promise mean nothing to you—a promise—an oath itself? Were you, parrot-like, merely echoing my words when you swore to stay by me until— his voice broke—death?