"Oh, I admit I built and baited and set it, myself—ass that I was! But it was your trap—yours and Brent's, all the same. . . . A skirt—and not a clean one, at that."
She lowered the book to her lap, took the cigarette from between her lips, looked at him. "Why not be reasonable, Freddie?" said she calmly. Language had long since lost its power to impress her. "Why irritate yourself and annoy me simply because I won't let you tyrannize over me? You know you can't treat me as if I were your property. I'm not your wife, and I don't have to be your mistress."
"Getting ready to break with me eh?"
"If I wished to go, I'd tell you—and go."
"You'd give me the shake, would you?—without the slightest regard for all I've done for you!"
She refused to argue that again. "I hope I've outgrown doing weak gentle things through cowardice and pretending it's through goodness of heart."
"You've gotten hard—like stone."
"Like you—somewhat." And after a moment she added, "Anything that's strong is hard—isn't it? Can a man or a woman get anywhere without being able to be what you call 'hard' and what I call 'strong'?"
"Where do you want to get?" demanded he.
She disregarded his question, to finish saying what was in her mind—what she was saying rather to give herself a clear look at her own thoughts and purposes than to enlighten him about them. "I'm not a sheltered woman," pursued she. "I've got no one to save me from the consequences of doing nice, sweet, womanly things."