“He was telling me how he loved another woman, that I might know he could never love me,” said Rosamond, getting more and more hurried as she went on. “And now I think he hates me because⁠—because you mistook him yesterday. He says it is through me that you will think ill of him⁠—think that he is a false person. But it shall not be through me. He has never had any love for me⁠—I know he has not⁠—he has always thought slightly of me. He said yesterday that no other woman existed for him beside you. The blame of what happened is entirely mine. He said he could never explain to you⁠—because of me. He said you could never think well of him again. But now I have told you, and he cannot reproach me any more.”

Rosamond had delivered her soul under impulses which she had not known before. She had begun her confession under the subduing influence of Dorothea’s emotion; and as she went on she had gathered the sense that she was repelling Will’s reproaches, which were still like a knife-wound within her.