"Still—that doesn't matter. Because when they act they act as a mob. And as a mob—they never admit what they really think and feel and dream and wish and long for. They just fight."
An expression came into her eyes that was part speculative and part cautious. "Some like that, too. Like to be hurt."
"Sure. The guilt again. The old quid pro quo."
She watched me. "They get a kick out of it."
"Pain's their license for any fun. Not in Nature—just in people. And what—incidentally—is your feeling about that?"
"Being hurt? I'd hate it."
"Me, too. Hurting, then?"
Her wary eyes decided. She raised a shoulder and let it fall. "What would you do if a guy who loved it asked you to beat him? If you knew it was the only kick he could get out of life? If he brought you a switch—"
"—just like the kind his mother used—"
"—and begged you?"