He broke out again into fresh anger. He raged up and down the room, hardly knowing what he was doing. He hated himself for his blindness, hated her more because she could stand there so unmoved.
"You'll come away with me to-morrow," he said hoarsely. "I insist— you're my wife!"
"Yes—unfortunately," she said, white-lipped.
He stared at her with hot eyes.
"Is that how you feel about it? You hate me as much as that? I know I haven't treated you as well as I might have done—I know I'm a selfish chap—but you knew that when you married me—you've always known it."
She gave a little weary sigh.
"What does it matter? I'm not complaining; you've always been free."
"I don't want to be free; you're my wife. Marie Celeste, for God's sake . . ." She put up her hand.
"Oh, Chris—please."
It hurt inexpressibly to hear him pleading to her—he who had never done such a thing in his life—and yet . . . "I don't care! I don't care at all!" she was saying over and over again in her heart.