O, her words, her words...they were ravaged, harsh, straining beneath the burden of some deep emotional turmoil he could only guess at. "...I do not think you wish to see me, but truly I cannot bear to leave you." Did that not quantify her sorrow to him? Ten and seven words, and her heart was bared...and O, what a true, devoted heart it was...
...And yet, deluded, too. By God...how could she bear to remain by him; how could she, in practice, stay hidden? How was it aught but a madwoman's wish to stay at the side of one equally touched, and comfort that one in his darkest hour? ...How were these actions not those of a fearful and callous partner, remaining at the threshold as she did, not daring to cross, not wishing to risk her life by doing so?
...And was he to blame for that? Did the culpability of all Emilia's misgivings lie solely on his shoulders? Recall, if you will, that you struck her first, that your twisted thoughts and actions intertwined and hurt her grievously, that your distance all these years has made her leery of you, that she will not go to you now, and therefore the fault is yours...
But she had betrayed him! She had spoken the words, those damning, intractable words, when she had sworn herself to silence, to forgetting the entirety of the deed. She had deserved the punishment he had bestowed upon her (she did not, by God! Wretched thing, you lie to save yourself!), and now...she was being...cautious. She knew it may well come again if she dared to cross within.
...And he could respect that instinct, at least: that of self-preservation. "Leave me, then," he replied, knowing he hurt her in saying what he said, and feeling...or trying not to feel...any remorse over the fact. Let her comfort herself; she was not the one whose life had just now been torn to pieces before her eyes. She could beg another's company, leaving him to his own thoughts and imaginings, impossibly dark and twisted in the blackness of the room. And night was only just beginning...