She wheeled round, as if the insult had struck her; and for a moment faced him, with open lips. Then she thought better of it: she laughed derisively, with a wanton undertone, in order to hurt him.
"You would at least have had me under your own eyes."
As she spoke, she nodded to the old woman who opened the door to say that the droschke waited below. A lace scarf was lying on the table; Louise twisted it mechanically round her head, and began to struggle with an evening cloak. Just as she had succeeded in getting it over her shoulders, Maurice took her by the arms and bent her backwards, so that the cloak fell to the floor.
"You shall not go!"
She stemmed her hands against him, and determinedly, yet with caution, pushed herself free.
"My dress—my hair! How dare you!"
"What do I care for your dress or your hair? You make me mad!"
"And what do I care whether you're mad or not? Take your hands away!"
"Louise! ... for God's sake! ... not with that man. At least, not with him. He has said infamous things of you. I never told you—yes, I heard him say—heard him compare you with ... soiled goods he called you.—Louise! Louise!"
"Have you any more insults for me?"