“And I believed in you, Quentin,” she said sadly.
“Now you know me. I have confessed this to no one but you. I cannot deceive you. No; I would deceive most any one—I’m so used to it!—but not you. Believe me, this is a great sacrifice on my part.”
“Aren’t you honest, Quentin?”
“Just enough so to keep out of jail.”
“And no more?”
“No more. I have been interested in no one but myself. I have been an ingrate.”
“Ungrateful too, Quentin?”
“Yes, that too. I am self-centred, a liar, a deceiver.... But even so, Remedios, there are men who have filthier souls than I.”
“You hurt me, Quentin.”
“What would you? I wished to be rich; and my heart, along with what few good qualities there were in it—if there were any—has gone on withering and being lacerated by the brambles along the road.”