She felt ill and took off her street suit and her corsets, put on a soft, veilly thing, and stretched out on her long-chair.
She was coddling a photograph of Jim Dyckman. He had scrawled across it, “To Little Anita from Big Jim.” She kissed the picture and cherished it to her aching breast.
The door-bell rang. She supposed that, as usual, the maid had forgotten to take her key with her. She went into the hall in a rage, still holding the photograph. She flung the door open—and in walked Gilfoyle.
She fell back stupefied. He grinned, and took her in with devouring eyes. If he had no right to devour her, who had? He approved of her with a rush of delight:
“Well, Anita, here I am. And how's the little wife?”
She could not answer him. He stared ferociously, and gasped as if he had forgotten how she had looked:
“Golly, but you're beautiful? Where's the little kiss?”
He threw his arms about her, garnering in the full sheaf of her beauty. She tried to escape, to protest, but he smothered her with his lips. She had been so long away from him, she had so long omitted him from her plans, that she felt a sense of outrage in his assault. Something virginal had resumed her heart, and his proprietorship revolted her.
Her shoulders were so constrained that she could not push free. She could only raise her right hand outside his left arm, and reaching his face, thrust it away. Her nails were long and sharp. They tore deep gashes in his cheeks and across his nose.
He let her go with a yelp of pain and shame. His fists gathered; primeval instinct told him to smash the mask of pale hatred he saw before him. But he saw the photograph in her left hand. It had been bent double in the scuffle. He snatched at it and tore away the lower half. He read the inscription with disgust and growled: