“Oh, stop! stop!” she cried. “Don't say anything more. You will brutalise me as well as yourself. I never thought you a saint--even when I cared for you. I know what you are, and, oh, God! this is the end of it. If you had betrayed a sweet, innocent girl, you would have been a villain, but not necessarily a brute--someone charming, pretty, attractive--I could have understood it; but a poor stupid drudge--a kitchen-maid--little better than an animal----” Thornton rushed forward and caught her by her shoulder. “By the Lord God! if you don't hold your tongue, I'll strike you!” She saw that she had aroused the devil in him. She had meant to be calm, to tell him plainly the facts of the case and to say that it would be better that they should live apart. But an irrepressible shudder had come over her, and then the brutal cynicism of his confession had caused her the loss of her self-control. As she saw the blazing eyes and white glittering teeth in front of her and felt the grip on her shoulder, she regretted that she had been, in a way, to blame; but she was no coward, and the threat awakened the fierce old Puritan courage in her nature. She did not flinch, but looked him directly in the face. “Your striking me would only add to your other brutalities.” “Damn you!” he cried in blind fury; and swinging her round, he struck her with the riding whip with all his huge strength, cutting the back of the thin morning gown, that flew open at the gap, showing her bare shoulders. Then he hurled her from him and rushed out of the room. With an almost superhuman effort of will Clytie sprang to her feet, stood for a moment dazed, stunned, on fire with agony, then staggered forward and threw herself upon the bearskin rug, with the illustrated History of England, open as Jack had left it, beneath her face. CHAPTER XXV. Suddenly Clytie rose to her feet and left the studio. As she moved a strange weight seemed to lie upon her limbs. It was a physical effort to drag herself up the stairs to her bedroom. Her heart seemed to be burned through, a fiery sword to have been thrust through her temples. It was the supreme moment of the horror and abasement of her married life. One intense thought possessed her; to fly from the house, to escape from the area of Thornton's influence, to bury herself somewhere far away. Mechanically she changed her things, choosing one of the simple morning dresses she had retained since the days before her marriage, and bathed her feverish face and hands. The cold water refreshed her, restored adjustment to her quivering nerves, and she was able to think, form a coherent plan.