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And she had contemptuously torn them to shreds, and sent him
away feeling like an unpardoned criminal. She hadn't drawn the sting
from one of the barbs she'd planted in him, in her anger, before he'd
left her in that North Clark Street room.
She didn't blame herself for the anger, nor for the panic of revulsion
that had excited it. That was a feeling that had happened to her. What
she did blame herself for was that, seeing them both now, as the victims
of a regrettable accident (did she really regret it? Were it in her
power to obliterate the memory of it altogether, as a child with a wet
sponge can obliterate a misspelled word from a slate, would she do it?
She dismissed that question unanswered.), she had allowed him to go away
with his burden of guilt unlightened. She had done that, she told
herself, out of sheer cowardice. She had been afraid of impairing the
luster of her virtuously superior position.
Yet now, she protested, she was being as unfair to herself as she had
been to him.


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