"No," she said. "A brute is not unnatural."
"Don't, please. I am trying not to be unnatural. There can be a broken heart shielding a heart to keep it from breaking."
"You were a judge, a man of justice. And was it just to let him suffer in the dark? Was it right to lock your own lips and put a seal on mine. Judge, I ought to have told him in your presence."
"Don't say that."
"But I do say it. You presume upon what you are pleased to think is my strength of character. I am beginning to believe that I was weak instead of strong. Yes, I ought to have told him in your presence. I ought to have said: 'Your father, who has been a judge, has passed sentence upon you without giving you a hearing. He says you are a thief.'"
"Hush," said the Judge, in a loud whisper, motioning toward the door. "Don't talk that way to me. Ah, I have killed all the love you ever had for me."
"You have choked it and it is gasping."
"I am grieved—but it cannot be undone—the fingers are stiffened about your gasping love." He walked up and down for a time, and then turned again to her. "When you get a letter from him will you let me read it?"
"No. His heart will write to mine, and your eye would blur the words."
"Don't say that. I am not without a heart. I had a heart—it is broken." He walked off again, but turned quickly. "Florence, I sometimes wonder if my eye could have deceived me—could have lied to me."