“You are hurting me, Mr. Switzer,” said Jane.
He dropped her arm. “Then, my God, will you not tell me? How do you know?”
“Mr. Switzer, believe me it is true,” said Jane, trying to speak quietly, though she was shaking with excitement and terror. “Mr. Romayne told me, they all told me, Kathleen told me. It is quite true, Mr. Switzer.”
He stared at her as if trying to take in the meaning of her words, then glared around him like a hunted animal seeking escape from a ring of foes, then back at her again. There were workmen passing close to them on the path, but he saw nothing of them. Jane was looking at his ghastly face. She was stricken with pity for him.
“Shall we walk on this way?” she said, touching his arm.
He shook off her touch but followed her away from the busy track of the workers, along a quieter path among the trees. Sheltered from observation, she slowed her steps and turned towards him.
“She loves him?” he said in a low husky voice. “You say she loves him?”
“Yes, Mr. Switzer, she loves him,” said Jane. “She cannot help herself. No one can help one's self. You must not blame her for that, Mr. Switzer.”
“She does not love me,” said Switzer as if stunned by the utterly inexplicable phenomenon. “But she did once,” he cried. “She did before that schwein came.” No words could describe the hate and contempt in his voice. He appeared to concentrate his passions struggling for expression, love, rage, hate, wounded pride, into one single stream of fury. Grinding his teeth, foaming, sputtering, he poured forth his words in an impetuous torrent.
“He stole her from me! this schwein of an Englishman! He came like a thief, like a dog and a dog's son and stole her! She was mine! She would have been mine! She loved me! She was learning to love me. I was too quick with her once, but she had forgiven me and was learning to love me. But this pig!” He gnashed his teeth upon the word.