"It is his pride that is hurt," thought Teresa. "It is his vanity, his sense of possession …" And she felt farther removed from him at that moment than ever before. It seemed possible to her that this might really mean a break between them. It was clearly in his mind, the idea of separation. And he threw out a fierce threat—he would take the child. At that, every atom of colour left her face. She sat, ashy-white, staring at him. She felt her heart beating with great dull throbs—she felt the life ebbing out of her body in anguish. He might ruin her life, then. It was an enemy that she saw before her, and one that she could not fight. He had not the right to take the child, but the thought of such a contest between them was impossible. If it came to that, she would kill herself.
There came a silence, at last. Basil had hurled at her everything he had to say, and he stood at the far end of the room, not looking at her. She had no impulse to defend herself—it would have been physically impossible for her to utter a word, to move even. At last he went abruptly out of the room, and a moment later she heard him leave the house. She sat where he had left her, while the fire died down into a bed of coals, and grey ashes gathered over it and killed the last red gleam, and the chill of the frosty night crept into the room. …
When she heard him come back, hours later,
