She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. If ever I could bring myself to ask you any favour, I would ask you to forget even as I have forgotten. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you.
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