He was angry, out of sheer despair.
“I've told you,” he said. “Things can't go on as they are. You know well enough what I mean. I'm older than you are, Anna. God knows I don't want any harm to come to you through me. But, if we continue to be together—”
“I'm not blaming you.” She looked at him honestly. “I'd just rather have you care about me than marry anybody else.”
He kissed her, with a curious mingling of exultation and despair. He left her there when he went away that afternoon, a rather downcast young figure, piling up records and card-indexes, and following him to the door with worshiping, anxious eyes. Later on in the afternoon Joey, wandering in from Clayton's office on one of his self-constituted observation tours, found her crying softly while she wiped her typewriter, preparatory to covering it for the night.
“Somebody been treatin' you rough?” he asked, more sympathetic than curious.
“What are you doing here, anyhow?” she demanded, angrily. “You're always hanging around, spying on me.”
“Somebody's got to keep an eye on you.”
“Well, you don't.”
“Look here,” he said, his young-old face twitching with anxiety. “You get out from under, kid. You take my advice, and get out from under. Something's going to fall.”
“Just mind your own business, and stop worrying about me. That's all.”