"You're my wife," he said again, meeting her eyes. "I haven't forgotten it if you have."
Her lips were shaking so that she could hardly speak, but she managed to form a few words.
"Don't you ever—touch me again—like that. How dare you—insult me! You say you don't care for women, and it seems to me as if—any woman—will do! First Mrs. Heriot—then . . . then Dorothy, and now . . . now me! Oh, if you knew how I hate you!"
She had gone too far. She knew it as soon as she had spoken, and she shrank away from him in fear when she saw his eyes.
He caught her roughly by the wrist, dragging her towards him.
"And you dare . . . you dare say a thing like that to me!" he panted. "It's not what you believe—you know it's not the truth! It's just a damnable excuse to get rid of me—to leave you free to 253 go to Dakers. My God, I could almost kill you . . ."
He was beside himself with rage and thwarted passion. He let her go so violently that she staggered and fell backwards, striking her head against the wooden window-sill; but Chris was blind and deaf to everything. He went downstairs and out into the street, hatless as he was, slamming the front door after him.
It was still light, and people stared at him curiously as he strode by, his eyes fixed unseeingly before him.
He was incapable of thought or action. He only felt that he must keep on walking, walking, to outstrip this terrible thing that walked gibbering beside him.
He had never suffered in all his life until now, and he did not know how to bear it.