Mad with rage I commenced to put my threat into
execution, when the door was opened by Miss T., half-naked, in
her petticoats, and pale as death, but no longer defiant. "So
I've caught you, have I?" I _looked_, but could not trust myself
to speak. Wondering why A. did not appear I went into the
bedroom. She was lying on the bed, just as Miss T. had left her,
on the verge of a fit, and on seeing me she held out her hands
piteously, and when I stooped over her she whispered, "Send her
away, send her away." Then she became unconscious and going into
the next room I ordered Miss T. (who had managed to scramble on
her dress) out of the house. I spoke scornfully as if addressing
a dog, and she slinked out with a malignant but cowed look I hope
never to see on a woman's face again. What they had been doing
with their clothes off I do not know; women will rather die than
confess. When A. had recovered from her fit she denied that there
had been anything between them, and stuck to it doggedly, but
with such a forlorn look I had not the heart to prosecute my
inquiries.
For my part, all the efforts I had been making for so long seemed
for a time to be in vain; for some weeks I sank into a sort of
satyriasis, and even my anger against Miss T.
Pages:
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572