"Then it was you. You and Uncle Robin and Aunt Prissie."

Harriett's face smiled its straight, thin-lipped smile, the worn, grooved
chin arrogantly lifted.

"How could you?"

"I could because I was brought up not to think of myself before other
people."

"Then it wasn't even your own idea. You sacrificed him to somebody else's.
You made three people miserable just for that. Four, if you count Aunt
Beatie."

"There was Prissie. I did it for her."

"What did you do for her? You insulted Aunt Prissie."

"Insulted her? My dear Mona!"

"It was an insult, handing her over to a man who couldn't love her even
with his body. Aunt Prissie was the miserablest of the lot. Do you suppose
he didn't take it out of her?"

"He never let her know."

"Oh, didn't he! She knew all right. That's how she got her illness. And
it's how he got his. And he'll kill Aunt Beatie. He's taking it out of
_her_ now. Look at the awful suffering. And you can go on
sentimentalizing about it."