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. . . But I've been fooled, for you now tell me . . . after
all my complacency . . . that you have deliberately. . . . In the name
of God do you know what you are? There's only one name for a woman who
does what you've done. Do you want me to tell you what that name is?"
I was quivering with shame, but my mind, which was going at lightning
speed, was thinking of London, of Cairo, of Rome, and of Paris.
"Why don't you speak?" he cried, lifting his voice in his rage. "Don't
you understand what a letter like this is calling you?"
My heart choked. But the thought that came to me--that, bad as his own
life had been, he considered he had a right to treat me in this way
because he was a man and I was a woman--brought strength out of my
weakness, so that when he went on to curse my Church and my religion,
saying this was all that had come of "the mummery of my masses," I fired
up for a moment and said:
"You can spare yourself these blasphemies. If I have done wrong, it is
I, and not my Church, that is to blame for it.


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