LARRY lifts his hands and wrings them.
[Utterly taken aback] Why come here and tell me this?
LARRY. Whom should I tell, Keith? I came to ask what I'm to do— give myself up, or what?
KEITH. When—when—what——?
LARRY. Last night.
KEITH. Good God! How? Where? You'd better tell me quietly from the beginning. Here, drink this coffee; it'll clear your head.
He pours out and hands him a cup of coffee. LARRY drinks it off.
LARRY. My head! Yes! It's like this, Keith—there's a girl——
KEITH. Women! Always women, with you! Well?
LARRY. A Polish girl. She—her father died over here when she was sixteen, and left her all alone. There was a mongrel living in the same house who married her—or pretended to. She's very pretty, Keith. He left her with a baby coming. She lost it, and nearly starved. Then another fellow took her on, and she lived with him two years, till that brute turned up again and made her go back to him. He used to beat her black and blue. He'd left her again when—I met her. She was taking anybody then. [He stops, passes his hand over his lips, looks up at KEITH, and goes on defiantly] I never met a sweeter woman, or a truer, that I swear. Woman! She's only twenty now! When I went to her last night, that devil had found her out again. He came for me—a bullying, great, hulking brute. Look! [He touches a dark mark on his forehead] I took his ugly throat, and when I let go—[He stops and his hands drop.]