IV
THE question of his right to know was then waived. That night she told him what there was to tell, with complete frankness. He would leave no detail to the imagination. He wanted to know all, all.
It seemed to Teresa that there was not very much to tell. It seemed to her that Basil's infinite questions wanted to wring more out of the facts than they contained, almost. It seemed to her that some part of his intelligence was trying to construct, quite impersonally, a drama, in which she figured merely as an actor. This was a momentary impression, swept away by the outbreak of his emotion.
He was moved as she had never seen him. Never before had she seen hate in his eyes, and she saw it now. It was as though an earthquake had convulsed the depths of an heretofore quiet sea, and all sorts of monsters came tossing to the surface—monstrous thoughts, blind words. She sat silent while the storm raged, her hands clenched on the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed on Basil's face, which for the first time looked ugly to her. All the strength and brightness of his aspect were gone, swamped in the nervous frenzy that shook him.
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