"
"Monsieur, this is a girl. I married a woman, a woman matured by
tragedy. The eyes that are laughing in this portrait are wiser now.
They have seen the depths of a man's treachery. But they have not lost
their spirit, no, nor their tenderness, monsieur. You will find little
that you recognize in the woman who is now my wife."
He kept his composure. "You use the word 'wife' very glibly," he said,
with a yawn. "Do you use it when the lady is within hearing, as you do
now?"
"She is my wife."
He laughed, for he saw he had drawn blood. "Your wife in name,
perhaps,--I grant you that,--but not in fact. Do you think me blind
that I should not see the two cabins. And you said that you had never
crossed the threshold of the woman's room. I see that I shall find my
cousin the maiden that I left her, monsieur."
I kept my lips closed. He had indeed drawn blood. I could not answer.
He leaned forward and tapped a significant forefinger on my knee.
"Remember, she has kissed me, monsieur. She has kissed me often of her
own will."
And then my spirit did return. "That does not concern me."
He lifted his great lip. "You are indulgent."
The flies buzzed odiously. The Englishman was gloating over me, his
great head craned forward like a buzzard's.
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