"Oh, Adam, _Adam_! You have killed it! How could you? How could
you?"

". . . Is he dead, Georgiana? Is he dead?. . ."

I forgot everything else, and pulling my hat down over my eyes,
turned from her in the helpless shock of silence that came with
those irreparable words.

Then in ungovernable anger, suffering, remorse, I turned upon her
where she sat: "It is _you_ who killed him! Why do you come here
to blame me? And now you pretend to be sorry. You felt no pity
when pity would have done some good. Trifler! Hypocrite!

"It is false!" she cried, her words flashing from her whole
countenance, her form drawn up to repel the shock of the blow.

"Did you not ask me for him?"

"No!"

"Oh, deny it all! It is a falsehood--invented by me on the spot.
You know nothing of it! You did not ask me to do this! And when
I have yielded, you have not run to reproach me here and to cry,
'How could you? How could you?'"

"No! No! Every word of it--"

"Untruth added to it all! Oh, that I should have been so deceived,
blinded, taken in!"