I mean that simply and solely to
escape from you she has run away with--another man."
A quiver of pain went over her face as she ended. With a swift,
passionate movement she rose, flinging her mask of composure aside. The
hand that gripped her wrist was bruising her flesh, but she never felt
it.
"Yes," she said, with abrupt vehemence. "That is what you have
done--you--you! You would not stoop to win her. You chose to take her by
force, and force is the one thing in the world that she will never
tolerate. You bullied her, frightened her, humiliated her. You drove her
to do this desperate thing. And you face me now, you dare to face me,
because I am a weak woman. If I were a man, I would kick you out of the
house. I--I believe I would kill you! Even Nan cannot hate you or despise
you one-tenth as much as I do!"
She ceased, but her eyes blazed their hatred at him as her heart cursed
him. She was furious as a tigress that defends her young.
As for the man, his hand was still clenched upon her wrist, but no
violent outburst escaped him. He was white to the lips, but he was
absolutely sane. If he heard her wild reproaches, he passed them over.
"Who is the man?" he said, and his voice fell like a word of command,
arresting, controlling, compelling.
It was not what she had expected. She had been prepared for tempestuous,
for overwhelming, wrath. The absence of this oddly disconcerted her.
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