"Why, what wrong did she do ?" The highest moral conceptions worked dully in her.

Yet she seemed then, as she always appeared to be, free from any action that should set the machine of penalty going against herself.

She was inexorable, but she had never, knowingly, so much as slashed the hem of the moral code.
"It was to give his wife pleasure that Anson made the false step," I urged.
"Do you think she would have had the pleasure at the price?
The man was vain and selfish to run any risk, to do anything that might endanger her safety--that is, her happiness and comfort." "But suppose he knew that she loved ease and pleasure ?--that he feared her anger or disdain if he did not minister to her luxuries ?" "Then he ought not to have married that kind of a woman." The hardness in her voice was matched at that moment by the coldness of her face.
"That is begging the question," I replied.

"What would such a selfish woman do in such a case, if her pleasure could not be gratified ?" "You must ask that kind of woman," was her ironical answer.
I rashly felt that her castle of strength was crumbling.

I ventured farther.
"I have done so." She turned slightly toward me, yet not nervously, as I had expected.
"What did she say ?" "She declined to answer directly." There was a pause, in which I felt her eyes searching my face.