“Do not steel yourself against probabilities, my dear fellow,” said Kingsley.
“Proofs against probabilities always!”
“No! none of these are proofs except the papers you have in your hands, and the imperfect events which you witnessed. I am so much an admirer of your wife myself, that I am ready to believe this statement against the rest; and to believe that, however strange may have been her conduct in some respects, it will yet be explained in a manner which shall acquit her of misconduct. Believe me, Clifford, think with me—”
“No! no! I can not—dare not! She is a—”
“Do not! Do not! No harsh words, even were it so! She has been your wife. She should still be sacred in your eyes, as one who has slept upon your bosom.”
“A traitress all the while, dreaming of the embraces of another.”
“Clifford, what can this mean? You are singularly inveterate.”
“Should I not be so? Am I not lost—abandoned—wrecked on the high seas of my hope—my fortunes scattered to the winds—my wealth, the jewel which I prized beyond all beside, which was worth the whole, gone down, swallowed up, and the black abyss closed over it for ever?”
“We are not sure of this”
“I am!”