"I—Harry—I—"
"You've got to stop this kind of thing, Millie, getting nervous spells like all the other women do the minute they get ten cents in their pocket. I ain't got the time for it—that's all there is to it."
"I can't help it, Harry. I think I must be going crazy. I can't stop myself. All of a sudden everything comes over me. I think I must be going crazy."
Her voice jerked up to an off pitch, and he flung himself down on the deep-cushioned couch, his stiff expanse of dress shirt bulging and straining at the studs. A bit redder and stouter, too, he was constantly rearing his chin away from the chafing edge of his collar.
"O Lord!" he said. "I guess I'm let in for some cutting-up again! Well, fire away and have it over with! What's eating you this time?"
She was quivering so against sobs that her lips were drawn in against her teeth by the great draught of her breathing.
"I can't stand it, Harry. I'm going crazy. I got to get relief. It's killing me—the lonesomeness—the waiting. I can't stand no more."
He sat looking at a wreath of roses in the light carpet, lips compressed, beating with fist into palm.
"Gad! I dunno! I give up. You're too much for me, woman."
"I can't go on this way—the suspense—can't—can't."