He turned quickly, nearly knocking over, as he did so, the milk-bottles that were lined, in a white row, upon the step.
"Yes?" he returned, and grinned sheepishly.
She thrust out her towsled head and looked up and down the gray morning street. The block was empty. She drew her head clear of the door. She was still trembling, but from neither cold nor fear.
"You ain't goin' without kissin' me?" she asked.
But a reaction of disgust had seized him.
"Yes, I am," he said.
Mary's one hand tightened on the knob; the other flattened itself against the nearest panel of the door, ready to push hard.
"All right," she replied, with a sudden change in her voice that, still low, became tense and metallic. "You think I'm—I'm done for, Max. Well—you're done for, too!"
The man's jaw dropped. His olive face was ashen. His eyes stared.
"What do you mean?" he asked.