"Do you say it to me—do you?" she gasped.
He searched further, but found nothing more. "What was in this letter?" he said.
"Ask the writer. Am I your hound that you should talk to me in this way?"
"Do you brave me? do you stand me out, mistress? Answer. Don't look at me with those eyes as if you would bewitch me again! Sooner than that I die. You refuse to answer?"
"I wouldn't tell you after this, if I were as innocent as the sweetest babe in heaven!"
"Which you are not."
"Certainly I am not absolutely," she replied. "I have not done what you suppose; but if to have done no harm at all is the only innocence recognized, I am beyond forgiveness. But I require no help from your conscience."
"You can resist, and resist again! Instead of hating you I could, I think, mourn for and pity you, if you were contrite, and would confess all. Forgive you I never can. I don't speak of your lover—I will give you the benefit of the doubt in that matter, for it only affects me personally. But the other: had you half-killed me, had it been that you wilfully took the sight away from these feeble eyes of mine, I could have forgiven you. But that's too much for nature!"
"Say no more. I will do without your pity. But I would have saved you from uttering what you will regret."
"I am going away now. I shall leave you."