And the conviction seized him that Beauchamp had
been working on her morbid sensitiveness to his disadvantage--taking
his revenge on him, by making the girl whom he worshipped shrink from
him with irrepressible loathing.
And in the lulls of his rage and jealousy, he had some glimpses into
Kate's character. Not that he was capable of thinking about it; but
flashes of reality came once and again across the vapours of passion.
He saw too that her nerves came, as it were, nearer the surface than
those of other people, and that thence she was exposed to those sudden
changes of feeling which had so often bewildered him. And now that
delicate creature was in the hands of Beauchamp--a selfish and
vulgar-minded fellow! That he whom he had heard insult a dead woman,
and whom he had chastised for it, should dare to touch Kate! His very
touch was defilement. But what could he do? Alas! he could only hate.
And what was that, if Kate should love! But she could not love him
already. He would tell her what kind of a person he was. But she would
not believe him, and would set it down to jealousy. And it would be
mean to tell her. Was Kate then to be left to such a fate without a
word of warning? He _would_ tell her, and let her despise him.
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