"Never! Never! I wouldn't; I couldn't!"
Her voice rose to a hysterical scream, then she stopped, struggled for control of herself, and shook like one in a chill, reaching out her hands toward him in mute appeal, unable to speak, to form coherent words. Finally she said in a hoarse whisper:
"Wait a moment. Wait! Let us be calm. Let us be calm. You haven't spared me. I'm not going to spare you."
She crouched and advanced toward him like a tiger.
"I'll never leave London! That's as fixed as death. You can't remain in London, and you know that too. You were forced out of the Army; that's enough. You're impossible! You always were impossible. You always will be. You're not a gentleman; you're a misfit, an outcast, a half-breed!"
His bronze sinewy hands looked very dark against the white, the dazzling white of her throat, as he lifted her in the air for one terrible instant, an instant when she was near to death and he to murder.
"Edith," he whispered, "if you were a man I'd kill you!"
Then he took his hands away, caught her when she would have fallen, and stammered out brokenly, almost in tears:
"No, no, I mustn't say that. You're not responsible. You're not responsible."
And he dragged himself away as though he might be tempted to put hands on her again, went over to the sofa, threw himself down in terror and abasement, and held his hands as though they were the offenders, not his will. On her part the leash was slipped. There was no longer any effort or desire to control herself. She quivered in an infuriate passion of hate. All other considerations were swept away. She followed him like a wild animal that has tasted blood. She wanted to hurt, to tear and rend, and she had a vague insane idea that if she could induce him to violence, that if she could goad him to maim her, his will, his inflexible purpose would break down under pity and remorse. She crouched over him while she screamed: