Indeed, Ladies, said I, [with assurance enough, thou'lt say,] this violence is not natural to my beloved's temper—misapprehension—
Misapprehension, wretch!—And want I excuses from thee!
By what a scorn was every lovely feature agitated!
Then turning her face from me, I have not patience, O thou guileful betrayer, to look upon thee! Begone! Begone! With a face so unblushing, how darest thou appear in my presence?
I thought then, that the character of a husband obliged me to be angry.
You may one day, Madam, repent this treatment:—by my soul, you may. You know I have not deserved it of you—you know—I have not.
Do I know you have not?—Wretch! Do I know—
You do, Madam—and never did man of my figure and consideration, [I thought it was proper to throw that in] meet with such treatment—
She lifted up her hands: indignation kept her silent.
But all is of a piece with the charge you bring against me of despoiling you of all succour and help, of making you poor and low, and with other unprecedented language. I will only say, before these two gentlewomen, that since it must be so, and since your former esteem for me is turned into so riveted an aversion, I will soon, very soon, make you entirely easy. I will be gone:—I will leave you to your own fate, as you call it; and may that be happy!—Only, that I may not appear to be a spoiler, a robber indeed, let me know whither I shall send your apparel, and every thing that belongs to you, and I will send it.