"Oh, we'd be happy enough. I'd forgive her—after a while."
"Yes, but what about her?"
"About her? Why, curse her, what right has she got to be considered?"
"Cartwright, she doesn't love you."
The bulldog came into the face of Cartwright and contorted it. "Don't she belong to me by law? Ain't she sworn to—"
"Don't" said Sinclair, as if the words strangled him. "Don't say that,
Cartwright, if you please!"
"Why not? You put up a good slick talk, Sinclair. But you don't win. I ain't going to give her up by no divorce. I'm going to keep her. I don't love her enough to want her back, I hate her enough. They's only one way that I'd stop caring about—stop fearing that she'd shame me. And that's by having her six feet underground. But you, Sinclair, you need coin. You're footloose. Suppose you was to take her and bring her to—"
"Don't!" cried Sinclair again. "Don't say it, Cartwright. Think it over again. Have mercy on her, man. She could make some home happy. Are you going to destroy that chance?"
"Say, what kind of talk is this?" asked the big man.
"Now," said Sinclair, "look to your own rotten soul!"