She took her hands from her face and leant back. Her face was set. “You’ve got no right to ask for that,” she said, “it is nothing to do with you. It is entirely personal.”
Duffy put his arm round the back of the chair and patted her shoulder. “Go into the Johnny,” he said.
She got out of the chair. Her eyes were very angry. Duffy thought she looked swell. “I’ve had enough of this,” she said, speaking very fast; “I’ve told you the truth, and I’m not giving you anything. Now, understand that.”
Duffy still sat on the chair-arm. He looked her over slowly, his mouth pursed, and his eyebrows raised. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said; “I want whatever you found in this joint, and I’m going to have it.”
She started to say something, but he held up his hand. “Quiet,” he said, “if you don’t like to give it to me, I’ll take it, how’s that?”
Slowly, she began to back to the door. He could see that she was getting scared. He left his seat quickly as she reached the door, and swung her round. She struck him across his nose with her clenched fist. Duffy was quite hurt. He put his hand to his face, felt his nose gingerly, looked at his fingers to see if his nose was bleeding, then he grinned. “Well, of course,” he said, “if that’s the way you want it.”
She struck at him again, but he caught her wrist, then she closed with him, a kicking, biting, scratching handful of outraged loveliness. For a moment, Duffy was busy keeping her nails out of his eyes. He smothered her arms with difficulty, turned her. Crossing her arms across her chest, and holding them tightly by the wrists behind her, he ran into the bedroom and slammed her face down on the bed.
“You Redhead,” he said, panting a little with his exertion. “You going to play ball, or do I have to get rough?”
She said, her voice muffled, “Oh! How I hate you!”
“Come on.”