“No!”
He tried to study her. Gradually, light penetrated his cloudy understanding: Erna was just like other women. Luckily, some stroke of intuition prompted him not to turn away this time. Instead, he put his hands on her shoulders and said with unaccustomed seriousness: “Erna! Don’t be sore.”
“I’m not sore,” she resented.
“I know—but—”
“You don’t have to explain,” she cried melodramatically. Strange to say, Erna seemed ready to cry.
At a loss, Jimmy tried philosophy: “’Cause life is Hell to some folks, Erna, we don’t have to imitate ’em, do we?” He could not tell whether she was listening. “Gimme a chance!” he added more cheerfully. “Quit the beanery an’ gimme a chance! I don’t want life to be Hell for you. Gimme the chance, won’t you?” He waited, but she did not look up. “You listenin’?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then quit the beanery, Erna! We can live nice an’ cosy an’ happy here, can’t we? You like it here?”
“Yes,” she admitted.