For a moment her cheeks went scarlet, then became deadly pale again.
“Pray do not attempt any subterfuge,” I continued. “I know that you have been in correspondence. Where is that last letter? I demand to see it.”
She replied without hesitation.
“You cannot see it.”
“Why?”
“Because I have burned it.”
At this admission I lost my self-command, and uttered an execration.
“There was nothing in it,” she said sorrowfully; “it was a mere request for an interview. You have no right to be so violent.”
“No right, woman!” I cried.
“There is nothing between us to make me ashamed. If I were the most guilty woman in the world, you could not treat me more cruelly. You have no pity, none. It is my fault, my punishment, to have married a man without sympathy, without religion.”