Like an ox with head bent, submissively he awaited the blow which he felt was lifted over him.

Every time he began to think about it, he felt that he must try once more, that by kindness, tenderness, and persuasion there was still hope of saving her, of bringing her back to herself, and every day he made ready to talk to her.

But every time he began talking to her, he felt that the spirit of evil and deceit, which had taken possession of her, had possession of him too, and he talked to her in a tone quite unlike that in which he had meant to talk.

Involuntarily he talked to her in his habitual tone of jeering at anyone who should say what he was saying.

And in that tone it was impossible to say what needed to be said to her.