“The blow is given. I will not part from you in anger;⁠—I owe you too much. I owe you six years of unalloyed happiness. But they are passed. I will not live the mark of suspicion, the object of jealousy. I love you too well. In an eternal separation only can either of us hope for dignity and propriety of action. We shall not then be degraded from our true characters. Faith and devotion have hitherto been the essence of our intercourse;⁠—these lost, let us not cling to the seedless husk of life, the unkernelled shell. You have your child, your brother, Idris, Adrian”⁠—

“And you,” cried Perdita, “the writer of that letter.”

Uncontrollable indignation flashed from the eyes of Raymond. He knew that this accusation at least was false. “Entertain this belief,” he cried, “hug it to your heart⁠—make it a pillow to your head, an opiate for your eyes⁠—I am content. But, by the God that made me, hell is not more false than the word you have spoken!”