He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps not; but even marrying me might be better than the other alternative."
"It wouldn't," she cried. "It would be worse. If I married you I couldn't get away from you. I couldn't get away from it. You'd keep me in it. It's what you like me for—what you're marrying me for. You haven't married, all these years, because you can't stand living with a decent woman. And you think, if I marry you, it will make it all right. All right!"
She rose and defied him. "Why, I'd rather be your mistress. Then I could get away from you. I shall get away now."
She turned violently, and he leaped up and caught her in his arms. She struggled, beating upon his breast, and crying with a sad, inarticulate cry. She would have sunk to the floor if he had not kept his hold of her.
He raised her, and she stood still, breathing hard, while he still grasped her tightly by the wrists.
"Let me go," she said faintly.
"Where are you going to?"
"I don't know."
"You've no money. If you're not going back what are you going to do?"
"I don't know."