He was even slightly disturbed by his own insensibility, and passed into his wife's bedroom partly in the hope of disturbing his serenity by some memento of their past.

There was no disorder of flight--everything was in its place, except the drawer of her desk, which was still open, as if she had taken something from it as an afterthought.

There were letters and papers there, some of his own and some in Captain Pinckney's handwriting.

It did not occur to him to look at them--even to justify himself, or excuse her.

He knew that his hatred of Captain Pinckney was not so much that he believed him her lover, as his sudden conviction that she was like him! He was the male of her species--a being antagonistic to himself, whom he could fight, and crush, and revenge himself upon.