Like most very cowardly men he could be brutal to women
when he was angry. It seemed to him that the girl, by her folly,
had dashed from him the last great satisfaction of his life at the
very moment when it was within reach. He could have forgiven her
for ruining herself, had she done so; he could not forgive her for
disappointing his ambition; he knew that one word of the story she
had told would make the great marriage impossible, and he knew
that she had the power to speak that word when she pleased as well
as the courage to do so.
"Fool!" he repeated, and before she could draw back, he struck her
across the mouth with the back of his hand.
A few drops of bright red blood trickled from her delicate lips.
With an instinctive movement she pressed her handkerchief to the
wound. Montevarchi snatched it roughly from her hand and threw it
across the room. From his eyes she guessed that he would strike
her again if she remained. With a look of intense hatred she made
a supreme effort, and concentrating the whole strength of her
slender frame wrenched herself free.
"Coward!" she cried, as he reeled backwards; then, before he could
recover himself, she was gone and he was left alone.
He was terribly angry, and at the same time his ideas were
confused, so that he hardly understood anything but the main point
of her story, that she had been with Gouache on that night when
Corona had brought her home.
Pages:
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491