He turned and put a hand over mine.
"You're going to cut that out, you know, girlie," he said. "I can't have my wife smoking."
Yes, that's what he said. For ten years he'd sent girls cigarettes and offered them cigarettes and sat with them in corners while they smoked cigarettes. But he didn't want his wife smoking. Wasn't it typical?
Oh, well, I didn't care. I'd do as I liked once we were married. Then about half way, without the slightest warning, I knew I couldn't marry him. Marry him! Why, I didn't even like him. And the way he made me sit with my hand in his coat pocket was sickening.
"I don't think I'll marry you after all," I said.
"Eh? What?"
"I said I've changed my mind. I won't do it."
"I haven't changed mine."
"I'm not really in love with you."
"You're nervous," he said calmly. "Go ahead and talk. It's the new psychology. Never bury your worries. Talk 'em out and get rid of 'em."