"It's no damned anemic passion!" he burst out.
"Thank you," she mocked. "Really, Marsh, you are outdoing yourself!"
"You have never let me see into your heart,—never once!"
"Perhaps it's just as well I haven't; perhaps it is a forbearance for which you should be only grateful," she jeered.
"If you were the sort of woman I once thought you, I'd want to hide nothing from you; but a woman—she's secretive and petty, she always keeps her secrets; the million little things she won't tell, the little secrets that mean so much to her—and a man wastes his life in loving such a woman, and is bitter when he finds he's given all for nothing!"
His heavy tramping went on.
"Is that the way you feel about it?" she asked.
"Yes!" he cried. "I'm infinitely more lonely than when I married you! Look here; I came to you, and in six months' time you knew a thousand things you had no right to know, unless you, too, were willing to come as close! But I'm damned if I know the first thing about you—sometimes you are one thing, sometimes another. I never know where to find you!"
"And I am to blame that we are unhappy? Of course you live in a way to make any woman perfectly happy—you are never at fault there!"
"You never really loved me!"