When he turned round, Madame
de Cintre had risen; she stood there silent and passive. "You are not
frank," said Newman; "you are not honest. Instead of saying that you are
imbecile, you should say that other people are wicked. Your mother and
your brother have been false and cruel; they have been so to me, and I
am sure they have been so to you. Why do you try to shield them? Why do
you sacrifice me to them? I'm not false; I'm not cruel. You don't know
what you give up; I can tell you that--you don't. They bully you and
plot about you; and I--I"--And he paused, holding out his hands. She
turned away and began to leave him. "You told me the other day that
you were afraid of your mother," he said, following her. "What did you
mean?"
Madame de Cintre shook her head. "I remember; I was sorry afterwards."
"You were sorry when she came down and put on the thumb-screws. In God's
name what IS it she does to you?"
"Nothing. Nothing that you can understand. And now that I have given you
up, I must not complain of her to you."
"That's no reasoning!" cried Newman. "Complain of her, on the contrary.
Tell me all about it, frankly and trustfully, as you ought, and we will
talk it over so satisfactorily that you won't give me up."
Madame de Cintre looked down some moments, fixedly; and then, raising
her eyes, she said, "One good at least has come of this: I have made
you judge me more fairly.
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