Her words came to him in a gurgle of terror.
"I hate you. I hate all of your yellow faces—and them eyes! I hate them horrid, nasty—eyes!"
He bent his head until his face almost touched hers. His strong, angry fingers held her firmly by either arm.
"It is not pletty, this face?"
She struggled, inane with fear. She fought, trying to free herself, to tear away from the vise-like grip of those awful hands; swaying like a tortured, trapped creature against his strength. She could feel the intensity, the calm scrutiny of his long, narrow eyes upon her.
Suddenly something in his brain snapped.
He pushed her roughly from him.
He saw her fall to the pavement; he saw her head strike the curb.
He stood there watching her as she lay, outlined by the light colored material of her dress against the wet blackness of the asphalt.
"What diffelence does it make if I am a Chinaman?"