She looked at him and shook her head. “I ain't ever going back. You don't know.”
“What don't I know?” She was silent, and he continued: “What happened on the wharf was horrible—it's natural you should feel as you do. But it doesn't make any real difference: you can't be hurt by such things. You must try to forget. And you must try to understand that men... men sometimes...”
“I know about men. That's why.”
He coloured a little at the retort, as though it had touched him in a way she did not suspect.
“Well, then... you must know one has to make allowances.... He'd been drinking....”
“I know all that, too. I've seen him so before. But he wouldn't have dared speak to me that way if he hadn't...”
“Hadn't what? What do you mean?”
“Hadn't wanted me to be like those other girls....” She lowered her voice and looked away from him. “So's 't he wouldn't have to go out....”
Harney stared at her. For a moment he did not seem to seize her meaning; then his face grew dark. “The damned hound! The villainous low hound!” His wrath blazed up, crimsoning him to the temples. “I never dreamed—good God, it's too vile,” he broke off, as if his thoughts recoiled from the discovery.
“I won't never go back there,” she repeated doggedly.