He closed the window and turned to her. As he advanced the lamp's glare fell full on him and she saw his face glistening with perspiration and darkened with unnatural hollows. In that one moment, played upon by the revealing side light, it was like the face of a skeleton and she rose with a frightened cry.
"Pop! You are sick. You look like you were dead."
She made a step toward him and before her advance he stopped, bristling, fierce, like a bear confronted by a hunter.
"You let me alone. You're crazy—sit down. Ain't I gone through enough without you pickin' on me about how I look?"
She shrank back, scared by his violence.
"But I can't help it. The room's like ice and you're sweating. I saw it on your forehead."
He almost roared.
"And supposin' I am? Ain't I given you a reason? Sweating? A Chihuahua dog 'ud sweat in this d——d place. It's like a smelting furnace." With a stiff, uncertain hand he felt in his pocket, drew out a bandanna and ran it over his face. "God, you'd think there was nothin' in the world but the way I look! I hiked down from the hills on the run to see you and you nag at me till I'm almost sorry I come."
That was too much for her. The tears, ready to flow at a word, poured out of her eyes, and she held out her arms to him, piteously crying:
"Oh, don't say that. Don't scold at me. I wouldn't say it if I didn't care. What would I do if you got sick—what would I do if I lost you? You're all I have and I'm so lonesome."