"Well, that 's all," he said. "Don't trouble about it any more. You 've explained and—if you care to know—I 'm quite satisfied."
Margaret sat slowly upright.
"No, you 're not," she answered. "That isn't true; you 're not satisfied. You 're disappointed that I did n't shrink from him and feel nervous of him. You are—you are! I 'm not as good as you thought I was, and you're disappointed. Why don't you say so? What's the use of pretending like this?"
Ford wriggled between the sheets irritably.
"You 're making a row," he said. "They 'll hear you downstairs."
Margaret had risen and was standing by her chair.
"I don't care," she said, lowering her voice at the same time. "But why are n't you honest with me? You say you 're satisfied and all the time you 're thinking: 'A nigger is as good as a white man to her.'"
"I 'm not," protested Ford vigorously.
"I did n't shrink," said Margaret. "My flesh didn't crawl once. When I shake his hand, it feels just the same as yours. That disgusts you—I know. There 's something wanting in me that you thought was there. Mrs. Jakes has got it; her flesh can crawl like a caterpillar; but I have n't. You did n't know that when you asked me not to go away, did you?"
"Sit down," begged Ford. "Sit down and let me ask you again."