She began to cry. “That's enough,” he said. “I'll not force you.”
“You are very good,” she said again.
He laughed more bitterly than before. “Dou yo think I'm wanting your body while another man has your heart? That's a game I've played about long enough, I'm thinking. Good? Not me, missis.”
His eyes, which had been fixed on the fire, wandered to his wife, and then his lips quivered and his manner changed.
“I'm hard—I'll cut it short. Fact is, I've detarmined to do something, but I've a question to ask first. You've suffered since you left me, Kate. He has dragged you down a dale—but tell me, do you love him still?”
She shuddered and crept closer to the wall.
“Don't be freckened. It's a woman's way to love the man that's done wrong by her. Being good to her is nothing—sarvice is nothing—kindness is nothing. Maybe there's some ones that cry shame on her for that—but not me. Giving herself, body and soul, and thinking nothing what she gets for it—that's the glory of a woman when she cares for anybody. Spake up, Kate—do you love him in spite of all?”
The answer came in a whisper that was like a breath—“Yes.”
“That'll do,” said Pete.
He pressed his hand against the place of his old wound. “I might have known you could never care for me—I might have known that,” he said with difficulty. “But don't think I can't stand my rackups, as the saying is. I know my course now—I know my job.”