The tone more than the question warned him.
“Well?” he said; sullen wrath gathering.
“Well, never speak to me again.”
“You won't be friends?”
“Friends! With you!”
Her meaning—that he had lost—stung him; her tone—that she despised him—was a finger in the wound.
He gripped her arm. “You little fool! How are you going to choose? If I want to be friends with you, how are you going to stop it? By God, if you want to be enemies it will be the worse for you. If I can't be friends with you at home, I'll get you turned out and I'll make you be friends outside.”
She was trying to twist her arm from his grasp.
He gripped closer. “No, I don't mean that. I love you—that's why I talk so when you rebuff me. I'll not hurt you. We shall—I will be friends.”
His right arm held her. He slipped his left around her, drew her to him, and with his lips had brushed her cheek before she was aware of his intention.