By no stretch of meaning could any but a harmless construction be placed upon a single one of the letters themselves.  The solitary exception was an empty envelope directed to her, and the handwriting was Wildeve’s.  Yeobright held it up.  Eustacia was doggedly silent.

“Can you read, madam?  Look at this envelope.  Doubtless we shall find more soon, and what was inside them.  I shall no doubt be gratified by learning in good time what a well-finished and full-blown adept in a certain trade my lady is.”

“Do you say it to me—­do you?” she gasped.

He searched further, but found nothing more.  “What was in this letter?” he said.

“Ask the writer.  Am I your hound that you should talk to me in this way?”

“Do you brave me? do you stand me out, mistress?  Answer.  Don’t look at me with those eyes as if you would bewitch me again!  Sooner than that I die.  You refuse to answer?”

“I wouldn’t tell you after this, if I were as innocent as the sweetest babe in heaven!”

“Which you are not.”

“Certainly I am not absolutely,” she replied.  “I have not done what you suppose; but if to have done no harm at all is the only innocence recognized, I am beyond forgiveness.  But I require no help from your conscience.”

“You can resist, and resist again!  Instead of hating you I could, I think, mourn for and pity you, if you were contrite, and would confess all.  Forgive you I never can.  I don’t speak of your lover—­I will give you the benefit of the doubt in that matter, for it only affects me personally.  But the other:  had you half-killed me, had it been that you wilfully took the sight away from these feeble eyes of mine, I could have forgiven you.  But that’s too much for nature!”

“Say no more.  I will do without your pity.  But I would have saved you from uttering what you will regret.”

“I am going away now.  I shall leave you.”

“You need not go, as I am going myself.  You will keep just as far away from me by staying here.”

“Call her to mind—­think of her—­what goodness there was in her:  it showed in every line of her face!  Most women, even when but slightly annoyed, show a flicker of evil in some curl of the mouth or some corner of the cheek; but as for her, never in her angriest moments was there anything malicious in her look.  She was angered quickly, but she forgave just as readily, and underneath her pride there was the meekness of a child.  What came of it?—­what cared you?  You hated her just as she was learning to love you.  O! couldn’t you see what was best for you, but must bring a curse upon me, and agony and death upon her, by doing that cruel deed!  What was the fellow’s name who was keeping you company and causing you to add cruelty to her to your wrong to me?  Was it Wildeve?  Was it poor Thomasin’s husband?  Heaven, what wickedness!  Lost your voice, have you?  It is natural after