Whenever his thoughts flew to the old home, the only home he had ever known, it would be only to remember that the man he most dreaded, he who was his most implacable enemy, was dwelling in it.

And when would he cease to think of his own birth-place and the birth-place of his children, the home where Felicita had lived?
It would be impossible to blot the vivid memory of it from his brain.
"I shall never see it again," he said; "but I should have felt less banished from you if I could have thought of you as still at home.

We are about to part forever, Felicita--as fully as if I lay dead down yonder, as men will think I do." "Yes," she answered, with a mournful stillness.
"Even if we wished to hold any intercourse with each other," he continued, gazing wistfully at her, "it would be dangerous to us both.
It is best for us both to be dead to one another." "It is best," she assented; "only if you were ever in great straits, if you could not earn your living, you might contrive to let me know." "There is no fear of that," he answered bitterly.

"Felicita, you never loved me as I love you." "No," she said, with the same inexpressible sadness, yet calmness, in her voice and face; "how could I?
I was a child when you married me; we were both children.

There is such a difference between us.