Perhaps she did not. Perhaps the very name was pain to her. But he must go wrangling on at her.
“Lovel wouldn’t keep you indoors, perhaps you think.—He would let you out into the snow,—take you out into it himself perhaps.”
She only looked at him. He went on, more judicial now; deliberate, less blatantly bad-tempered.
“Yet, after all, I don’t know why you hold such a good opinion of this fellow Lovel. He sticks to no trade,—he gets a country girl into trouble and has to marry her,—not a very creditable record, it seems to me.” He was leaning back in his chair, with his finger-tips together. “And, judging by his stock, he has no right to beget sons,—better if he did not associate with women at all,—such people should be allowed to die out.”
“So Mrs. Quince was saying. Perhaps he feels the same himself,” said Clare in a contained voice.
“It looks like it! a child born after four months of marriage. I am bound to say, my dear, your suggestion isn’t very convincing. But there, what should you know of the lusts of these country young men? Animals, merely. Forgive me if I seem self-righteous. I feel strongly,—very strongly.” He leaned forward and patted her. “You can understand that I don’t like to think of my Clare contaminated by such company.”
“You mean Lovel?”
“Most certainly I mean Lovel.—Why do you look at me so darkly, Clare?”
“Did I look at you darkly? I didn’t mean to. My thoughts were far away.”
“And where....”