“I will listen to reason. But you haven't got any reason. If you had, why didn't you tell me before you did it?”
He continued the sex assault; flung out a declamatory hand. “There you go! Why didn't I tell you? I've told you why. I tell you I did it on the spur of the moment—”
But she still struggled. “Yes, that's just it. You didn't think. Now that you are thinking you must see it in its proper light. You must see it's wrong.”
“I don't. I don't in the least.”
“Well, why are you getting in such a state about it?”
“I'm not getting in a state!”
“You are.” His Mary fumbled at her waist-belt. “You are. You're—saying—all sorts—of—things. You—said—I—was—just—like—a—woman.” Out came this preposterous Mary's pocket handkerchief; into it went Mary's little nose.
George sprang to her. “Oh, Mary! Oh, I say, don't cry, old girl!”
The nose came out for a minute, a very shiny little nose. “I can't help crying. This is an—an awful business.” The shiny little nose disappeared again.
George tried to pull away the handkerchief, tried to put his face against hers. A bony little shoulder poked obstinately up and prevented him. He burst out desperately. “Oh, damn! Oh, what a beast I am! I'm always making you cry. Oh, damn! Oh, Mary! I can't do anything right. I've had an awful time these days—and I was longing to see you,—and now I've called you names and been a brute.”