“I—can’t—” said Aggie, in a still stranger voice, a voice that sounded as if it were deflected somehow by her bent body and came from another woman rather far away. It made Arthur turn in the doorway and look at her. She rose, straightening herself slowly, dragging herself upward from the table with both hands. Her bleached lips parted; she drew in her breath with a quick sound like a sob, and let it out again on a sharp note of pain.
He rushed to her, all his sunken manhood roused by her bitter, helpless cry.
“Aggie, darling, what is it? Are you ill?”
“No, no, I’m not ill; I’m only tired,” she sobbed, clutching at him with her two hands, and swaying where she stood.
He took her in his arms and half dragged, half carried her from the room. On the narrow stairs they paused.
“Let me go alone,” she whispered.
She tried to free herself from his grasp, failed, and laid her head back on his shoulder again; and he lifted her and carried her to her bed.
He knelt down and took off her shoes. He sat beside her, supporting her while he let down her long, thin braids of hair. She looked up at him, and saw that there was still no knowledge in the frightened eyes that gazed at her; and when he would have unfastened the bodice of her gown, she pushed back his hands and held them.
“No, no,” she whimpered. “Go away. Go away.”
“Aggie—”