"Yes, but if it's too late, Claude—for that particular thing?"
"Oh, but it isn't—it won't be—not when she sees me."
"It might be; and if she doesn't want it, Claude, I don't see why you—"
"You don't see why because you're not me. If you were, you would. A woman hasn't a man's sense of honor, anyhow."
She let this pass with an inward smile in order to say, "But, Claude, suppose you can't do it?"
He twisted his neck, with his customary chafing, irritated movement. "I'll do it—or croak."
"Oh, but that's nonsense!"
"To you—not to me. You haven't been through the mill that I've been ground up in. You don't know what it is to have been born—born a gentleman—and to have blasted yourself into human remains. That's what I am now—not a man—to say nothing of a gentleman—just human remains—too awful to look at."
She tried to reason with him. "But, Claude, you mustn't exaggerate things or put the punishment out of proportion to the crime. Admitting that what you did to Rosie was dishonorable—brutal, if you like—"
"Oh, it isn't that. It's what I did to myself. Can't you see?"