"Jim," she pleaded. "Jim...."
"Be a man," she whispered. "Pull yourself together."
He put her away from him roughly.
"I wish you'd go," he said dully. "I don't want you here."
Her face grew whiter. Her hands crept to him again. The light of a great love was in her eyes.
"Oh, Jim," she whispered, "I know I'm not like she was. I'm not beautiful. I'm not wonderful. I haven't anything that she had. Oh, I know all that ... so well."
He uncovered his face—it was haggard and bloodless, the face of a man in the throes of a mental hell—and looked at her, almost with revulsion.
"You?" he cried harshly. "You...? You dare to name yourself to me in the same breath with her? Get up, and look at yourself!" He pointed to a cracked mirror on the mantel-piece. "Look!" he said hoarsely, thrusting her away from him again. "Do you see how coarse and heavy and rough you are? She was light and delicate—like a snowflake. She never seemed to touch the ground. Your hair is like string—your hands are large—your voice is harsh. Her hair was like silk—gold silk in the sunshine. I could see through her hands. Her voice was music. I want you to go. You are in my way."
She sprang up, raging.