"Beautiful!" His eyes were aflame. "You're my wife. Nothing can change that."
"Nothing except—yourself. Now, you MUST listen to me." She forced him reluctantly into his chair and seated herself opposite. He leaned forward and kissed her once more, then seized her hand and held it. At intervals he crushed his lips into its pink palm. "We must start honestly," she began. "Do you mind if I hurt you?"
"You can't hurt me so long as you don't—leave me. Your eyes have haunted me every night. I've seen the curve of your neck—your lips. No woman was ever so perfect, so maddening."
"Always that. You're not a husband at this moment; you're only a man."
He frowned slightly.
"That's what makes this whole matter so difficult," she went on. "Don't you see?"
He shook his head.
"You don't love me, you're drunk with—something altogether different to love. … It's true," she insisted. "You show it. You don't even know the real me."
"Beauty may be only a skin disease," Bob laughed, "but ugliness goes clear to the bone."
"I married you for your money, and you married me because—I seemed physically perfect—because my face and my body roused fires in you. I think we are both pretty rotten at heart, don't you?"