Frances looked at her steadily a moment, contempt in her eloquent face. “If you have no other virtue in you, at least have some respect for the dying,” she said.
“He’s not dying, he’ll not die!” Nola hotly denied. “He’ll live—live to love me!”
“Go! This room—”
“It’s my house; I’ll go and come in it when I please.”
“I’m a prisoner in it, not a guest. I’ll force you out of the room if I must. This disgraceful behavior must end, and end this minute. Are you going?”
“If you were out of the way, he’d love me,” said Nola from the door, spiteful, resentful, speaking slowly, as if pressing each word into Frances’ brain and heart; “if you were out of the way.”