"No; it was not your fault. I'm not blaming you. It was to be. Some men are made for women's feet to spurn." He paused. "Mrs. Carruth--since it is to be--I mean you well."
"Some people's meaning is very badly expressed."
"That's me. That's me all through--yes, right along. I ask you again, Who is that man?"
"Are you referring to the gentleman who has just been kind enough to come and see me? That is Mr. Townsend."
"Then Mr. Townsend is a thing of evil--he is!" He held up his forefinger to me with a warning gesture. I did not interrupt. "When I came near him I knew him for what he was. I saw right through. He is a whited sepulchre. I saw the blood gleaming on his hand. I could not stay where he was. I went outside, and stood on the corner of the street until I saw him go. And when I came back, I found that his presence was still with the house."
For my part I was glad that it was--if it was.
"This sort of talk, coming from you, is very ridiculous. Has your own life been so pure that you should attempt to blacken another man's character merely because he is my friend?"
"Pure? No; no man's life is pure. We are born to evil like the sparks fly upwards. But there's a difference."
"Pray, in what does the difference consist? I presume you have not forgotten that at least a portion of your record is known to me?"
He shook his head with dogged insistence.