Heturnedwhite，andfixedhiseyesonmeratherthanonthedamagingpieceofevidenceIthrustbeforethem。
“Mydear，“Iwenton，“thisisnotawhip；itisascreenbehindwhichyouarehidingsomethingfromme。“
ThereuponIgavemyselfthegratificationofwatchinghishopelessentanglementinthecovertsandlabyrinthsofdeceitandthedesperateeffortshemadetofindsomewallhemightscaleandthusescape。Invain；hehadperforcetoremainuponthefield，facetofacewithanadversary，whoatlastlaiddownherarmsinafeignedcomplacence。
Butitwastoolate。Thefatalmistake，againstwhichmymotherhadtriedtowarmme，wasmade。Myjealousy，exposedinallitsnakedness，hadledtowarandallitsstratagemsbetweenGastonandmyself。
Jealousy，dear，hasneithersensenordecency。