"Mary—I can't bear to have anything wrong with you and me.... Other things go wrong—there's a lot of trouble and worry—but I can't stand it to feel angry at you, or have you angry with me—"
"I don't think I'm ever angry with you," murmured Mary reflectively.
"Well, worse ... you look at me sometimes as if you didn't like me! When you're displeased—it's worse than being angry. I'd rather you'd flame out, the way I do, and get it over with—"
"I'm not like you." She smiled gravely.
"I wish you felt as I do—that you'd do anything rather than have trouble between us—"
"Trouble? What trouble?"
She drew away from him, an instinctive shrinking that hurt him.
"I mean, you don't seem to care that certain things disturb me!" he burst out. "You're so terribly reserved, you keep things to yourself—you do things I don't like, and you don't care that I don't like them—"
"I don't do anything wrong," said Mary proudly.