He would not believe it.

The pots and pans on the hearth, the simple implements of work and life, on which his eyes alighted wherever he turned them, and to none of which her hand was stranger, his memory of the love that was between her and her mother, his picture of the sacred life led by those two above stairs, all gave the lie to it! Her subjection to Basterga, her submission to contumely and to insult--there must be a reason for these, a natural and innocent reason could he hit on it.

The strange occurrences of the night, the blasphemous words, the mocking laughter, at the worst they might not import a mastery over her.

He shuddered as he recalled them, they rang in his ears and brain, the vividness of his memory of them was remarkable.

But they might not have relation to her.
He stood long in moody thought, but his ears never for an instant relaxed their vigil, their hearkening for he knew not what.