She spoke again before he could collect his thoughts and make reply.

"I did not ask for too much, I think, and I could have forgiven and
forgotten all the hurts you have given me, if it were not for one thing.
You have been unjust, hard, selfish, and suspicious. Suspicious--of me!
No one else in all the world ever thought of me what you have thought.
I have done all I could. I have honourably kept the faith. But you have
spoiled it all. I have no memory that I care to keep. It is stained.
My eyes can never bear to look upon the past again, the past with you--
never."

She turned to leave the room. He caught her arm. "You will wait till
you hear what I have to say," he cried in anger. Her last words had
stung him so, her manner was so pitilessly scornful. It was as though
she looked down on him from a height. His old arrogance fought for
mastery over his apprehension. What did she know? What did she mean?
In any case he must face it out, be strong--and merciful and affectionate
afterwards.

"Wait, Hylda," he said. "We must talk this out."

She freed her arm. "There is nothing to talk out," she answered.
"So far as our relations are concerned, all reason for talk is gone."
She drew the fatal letter from the sash at her waist. "You will think so
too when you read this letter again." She laid it on the table beside
him, and, as he opened and glanced at it, she left the room.

He stood with the letter in his hand, dumfounded. "Good God!" he said,
and sank into a chair.