It's--Oh, it's a muddle, a
detestable, horrible, disgusting muddle!"
She went to the wash-stand and began sponging her cheeks with cold
water; for they were burning hot. Still sponging them and trembling
slightly she turned and explained in the high pitched voice of nervous
excitement: "Alfred Perrott says I've promised to marry him, and I say I
never did. Sinclair says he'll shoot himself if I don't marry him, and
I say, 'Well, shoot yourself!' But of course he doesn't--they never do.
And Sinclair got hold of me this afternoon and began bothering me to
give an answer, and accusing me of flirting with Alfred Perrott, and
told me I'd no heart, and was merely a Siren, oh, and quantities of
pleasant things like that. So at last I said to him, 'Well, Sinclair,
you've said enough now. You can just let me go.' And then he caught me
and kissed me--the disgusting brute--I can still feel his nasty hairy
face just there--as if he'd any right to, after what he'd said!"
She sponged a spot on her left cheek energetically.
"I've never met a man that was fit to compare with a woman!" she cried;
"they've no dignity, they've no courage, they've nothing but their
beastly passions and their brute strength! Would any woman have
behaved like that--if a man had said he didn't want her? We've too much
self-respect; we're infinitely finer than they are.
Pages:
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360