"I hate it! I hate this horrible canvas! I hate it more than—more than the worst that can happen. It hurts my fingers to touch it. It is horrible to the skin. And the women I work with day after day! I lie awake at nights and think how I may be growing like them...."
She stopped. "I am growing like them," she cried passionately.
Denton stared at her distress. "But—" he said and stopped.
"You don't understand. What have I? What have I to save me? You can fight. Fighting is man's work. But women—women are different.... I have thought it all out, I have done nothing but think night and day. Look at the colour of my face! I cannot go on. I cannot endure this life.... I cannot endure it."
She stopped. She hesitated.
"You do not know all," she said abruptly, and for an instant her lips had a bitter smile. "I have been asked to leave you."
"Leave me!"
She made no answer save an affirmative movement of the head.
Denton stood up sharply. They stared at one another through a long silence.
Suddenly she turned herself about, and flung face downward upon their canvas bed. She did not sob, she made no sound. She lay still upon her face. After a vast, distressful void her shoulders heaved and she began to weep silently.