In her soul she's a devilish unbeliever,
common as dirt. That's what she is at the bottom. And all the rest is
pretence--but you love it. You love the sham spirituality, it's your
food. And why? Because of the dirt underneath. Do you think I don't
know the foulness of your sex life--and her's?--I do. And it's that
foulness you want, you liar. Then have it, have it. You're such a
liar.'
She turned away, spasmodically tearing the twigs of spindleberry from
the hedge, and fastening them, with vibrating fingers, in the bosom of
her coat.
He stood watching in silence. A wonderful tenderness burned in him, at
the sight of her quivering, so sensitive fingers: and at the same time
he was full of rage and callousness.
'This is a degrading exhibition,' he said coolly.
'Yes, degrading indeed,' she said. 'But more to me than to you.'
'Since you choose to degrade yourself,' he said. Again the flash came
over her face, the yellow lights concentrated in her eyes.
'YOU!' she cried. 'You! You truth-lover! You purity-monger! It STINKS,
your truth and your purity.
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