'Nothing can excuse it; nothing can atone for it,--for nothing can recall those years of cursed credulity; nothing obliterate them!--nothing, nothing!' he repeated in a whisper, whose despairing bitterness precluded all resentment.
'When I put the case to myself, I own it was wrong,' I answered; 'but I can only now regret that I did not see it in this light before, and that, as you say, nothing can recall the past.' Something in my voice or in the spirit of this answer seemed to alter his mood.

Turning towards me, and attentively surveying my face by the dim light, he said, in a milder tone than he had yet employed,--'You, too, have suffered, I suppose.' 'I suffered much, at first.' 'When was that ?' 'Two years ago; and two years hence you will be as calm as I am now, and far, far happier, I trust, for you are a man, and free to act as you please.' Something like a smile, but a very bitter one, crossed his face for a moment.
'You have not been happy, lately ?' he said, with a kind of effort to regain composure, and a determination to waive the further discussion of his own calamity.
'Happy ?' I repeated, almost provoked at such a question.

'Could I be so, with such a husband ?' 'I have noticed a change in your appearance since the first years of your marriage,' pursued he: 'I observed it to--to that infernal demon,' he muttered between his teeth; 'and he said it was your own sour temper that was eating away your bloom: it was making you old and ugly before your time, and had already made his fireside as comfortless as a convent cell.
You smile, Mrs.Huntingdon; nothing moves you.

I wish my nature were as calm as yours.' 'My nature was not originally calm,' said I.

'I have learned to appear so by dint of hard lessons and many repeated efforts.' At this juncture Mr.Hattersley burst into the room.
'Hallo, Lowborough!' he began--'Oh! I beg your pardon,' he exclaimed on seeing me.