Less than a second and already he had guessed her purpose: before she could reach the door he had his back against it and his nervy fingers had grasped her wrist.
"Where are you going?"
"Out," she said curtly.
"What for?"
"That's none of your business."
"What for?" he reiterated hoarsely.
"Let go my wrist," she exclaimed, "you are hurting me."
"I'll hurt you worse," he cried, in a broken voice, "if you cross this threshold to-night."
But he released her wrist, and she, wrathful, indignant, terrified, retreated to the other end of the room.
"Go out by the back door," he sneered, "if you want to go out. You have the key, haven't you?"