“I shouldn’t mind if you were violent if you loved me,” replied Bertha, taking his remark with vehement seriousness. “I shouldn’t care if you beat me; I should not mind how much you hurt me, if you did it because you loved me.”
“I think a week of it would about sicken you of that sort of love, my dear.”
“Anything would be preferable to your indifference.”
“But God bless my soul, I’m not indifferent. Any one would think I didn’t care for you—or was gone on some other woman.”
“I almost wish you were,” answered Bertha. “If you loved any one at all, I might have some hope of gaining your affection—but you’re incapable of love.”
“I don’t know about that. I can say truly that after God and my honour, I treasure nothing in the world so much as you.”
“You’ve forgotten your hunter,” cried Bertha, scornfully.
“No, I haven’t,” answered Edward, with a certain gravity.
“What do you think I care for a position like that? You acknowledge that I am third—I would as soon be nowhere.”
“I could not love you half so much, loved I not honour more,” misquoted Edward.