“Ah!” she exclaimed, the disgust and revolt of her soul finding its only expression in an inarticulate cry. And then she instinctively fled towards the street door.
But Goddard overtook her in two or three great strides. She shrank into the corner, put up her hand as if he were about to touch her.
“Let me go. Don’t come near me. Don’t speak to me. It is horrible.”
“Yes, it’s horrible,” he replied fiercely. “But it is my curse, and not my fault, that I have a wife like that.”
“Your wife, your wife?” she said in a queer, faint voice. “That—that woman your wife?”
“You did not think it was my mistress?” he exclaimed with bitter coarseness. “To come to her after leaving you!”
She recovered her composure with a strong effort.
“I will trouble you to open that door for me.”
He slid back the latch, held the door open for her to pass out, followed her, and, shutting it behind him, stood with her on the steps. Then, before she had time to descend, he seized her by the wrist.
“What madness made you come to this house? Tell me.”