"That is one reason I came," she said; "to explain—"
"You could have written."
"I say it was one reason; the other I have already given you—because I—I felt that you were friendly."
"I am. Go on."
"I don't know whether you are friendly to me; I thought you were—that night. . . . I did not sleep a wink after it . . . because I was quite happy. . . . But now—I don't know—"
"Whether I am still friendly? Well, I am. So please explain about Gerald."
"Are you sure?" raising her dark eyes, "that you mean to be kind?"
"Yes, sure," he said harshly. "Go on."
"You are a little rough with me; a-almost insolent—"
"I—I have to be. Good God! Alixe, do you think this is nothing to me?—this wretched mess we have made of life! Do you think my roughness and abruptness comes from anything but pity?—pity for us both, I tell you. Do you think I can remain unmoved looking on the atrocious punishment you have inflicted on yourself?—tethered to—to that!—for life!—the poison of the contact showing in your altered voice and manner!—in the things you laugh at, in the things you live for—in the twisted, misshapen ideals that your friends set up on a heap of nuggets for you to worship? Even if we've passed through the sea of mire, can't we at least clear the filth from our eyes and see straight and steer straight to the anchorage?"