“Yes, I tell you!” he cried. “We’ve—busted up everything—for good and all.”
And feeling himself uncontrollably about to cry, he turned his face against the couch, and lay shaken with convulsive strangling sobs.
The girl sprang up, and looked down at him. She had never seen him cry. She had not known that he could cry. As a matter of fact, he had not cried very many times in his life, and he did not know how, and did it badly.
He looked up at last, brushing his eyes with his coatsleeve. He wanted her pity.
He saw her looking at him with haughty anger. Her whole gesture was one of outrage. When she saw him look up, she clenched her fists, and said,
“You never told me—”
“Never told you?” His anger burst out against her, anger mixed with self-pity. “What did you expect?”
She turned half away from him in disdain.
“Not this!” she said.
“No!” he said, sitting up. “No, you little idiot, I suppose you didn’t.... And I didn’t either. Well—you see.”