The pressure in his temples was excruciating, and he felt loathsomely
sick.

Beatrice's dark eyes flashed with rage.

'Isn't there!' she cried. 'Oh, isn't there? No, there is need for a
great deal more. I don't know what you think I am. How much farther do
you' think you can go? No, you don't like reminding of us. You sit
moping, sulking, because you have to come back to your own children. I
wonder how much you think I shall stand? What do you think I am, to put
up with it? What do you think I am? Am I a servant to eat out of
your hand?' 'Be quiet!' shouted Siegmund. 'Don't I know what you are? Listen to
yourself!' Beatrice was suddenly silenced. It was the stillness of white-hot wrath.
Even Siegmund was glad to hear her voice again. She spoke low and
trembling.

'You coward--you miserable coward! It is I, is it, who am wrong? It is I
who am to blame, is it? You miserable thing! I have no doubt you know
what I am.' Siegmund looked up at her as her words died off. She looked back at him
with dark eyes loathing his cowed, wretched animosity. His eyes were
bloodshot and furtive, his mouth was drawn back in a half-grin of hate
and misery. She was goading him, in his darkness whither he had
withdrawn himself like a sick dog, to die or recover as his strength
should prove. She tortured him till his sickness was swallowed by anger,
which glared redly at her as he pushed back his chair to rise. He
trembled too much, however. His chin dropped again on his chest.
Beatrice sat down in her place, hearing footsteps. She was shuddering
slightly, and her eyes were fixed.