"Are you going to turn me out into the street?" he suddenly asked, after a short silence.
"The rules of this house—which is dedicated to the assistance of sick and helpless women—will not admit of your remaining."
"I am going. You will hear of me next as one past recovery; picked up out of some kennel by the police. You would have done better not to have restored me. I should have died quietly."
"But without repentance."
"Repentance!" he said fiercely. "Repent while my whole soul is writhing with agony? Ella! Ella! if I could only have kept my Ella, she would have tended me—she would have soothed me—she would have worked for me."
"Yes," said the lady, "she would have done this, and much more—but God has taken her; has rescued her from your heartless selfishness." To herself she added—for her heart was glowing with indignation—"Even in this supreme moment, he thinks of nothing but of himself."
"She would have been more gentle with me than you are," he said, with a half-reproachful sigh.
"Yes, yes—she would have felt only for you—I happen to feel for her."
"Which I never did."
"Never—"