There's nothing else for it. It isn't her fault, though it covers her with such cruel shame that she can't look herself in the face. I knew that my wife meant Faulkner by her less, and Nevil by her greater, vehemence of accent. There's where I blame her. It's inspired, for her safety and for her husband's.
Men have no inspirations.
Jealousy's a low, brutal instinct with them. He doesn't know anything about it. It was his folly, his silly, romantic clinging to a sentiment that he ought to have flung away the instant he was married, which did all the harm. We suffer every day for our sorrows, and for the sins of men we never saw, or even heard of. Some utterly forgotten ancestral dyspeptic rises from the dust now and then, and smites me with his prehistoric indigestion.