"The moon is up," was his first not quite relevant remark, pointing with his whip across the moor. "There she is, rising into the haze, staring at us wi' a strange red glower. She is no more silver than old Helstone's brow is ivory. What does she mean by leaning her cheek on Rushedge i' that way, and looking at us wi' a scowl and a menace?"
"Yorke, if Mary had loved you silently yet faithfully, chastely yet fervently, as you would wish your wife to love, would you have left her?"
"Robert!"--he lifted his arm, he held it suspended, and paused--"Robert! this is a queer world, and men are made of the queerest dregs that Chaos churned up in her ferment. I might swear sounding oaths--oaths that would make the poachers think there was a bittern booming in Bilberry Moss--that, in the case you put, death only should have parted me from Mary. But I have lived in the world fifty-five years; I have been forced to study human nature; and, to speak a dark truth, the odds are, if Mary had loved and not scorned me, if I had been secure of her affection, certain of her constancy, been irritated by no doubts, stung by no humiliations--the odds are" (he let his hand fall heavy on the saddle)--"the odds are I should have left her!"

"The moon is up," was his only remark.
"Yorke, if Mary had loved you silently yet faithfully, chastely yet fervently, would you have left her?"
"Robert!" He lifted his arm, and paused. "Robert! I might swear thunderous oaths that, in the case you put, death only should have parted me from Mary. But I have lived in the world fifty-five years; I have been forced to study human nature; and, to speak a dark truth, if Mary had loved me, if I had been secure of her affection, the odds are" (he let his hand fall heavy on the saddle) - "the odds are I should have left her!"
