She came to the chair on the other side of the table and sank into it, still watching me.
“You are afraid of happiness,” she said.
“No, no—I am not! It is not that!”
“But Anthony, I can't believe that you are afraid of unhappiness. I know you too well.”
“I am not. I am choosing unhappiness.”
She knit her brows. “Probably,” she said slowly and thoughtfully, “it is something of both.”
“No,” I answered, “you are wrong. You know well enough what it is. It is your freedom. That is the one thing I will not, can not take.”
“My what?” she queried, with a curious, faint smile.
“Your freedom!” I cried, standing over her, with clenched hands.
“But Anthony, I am not free. There never was a woman less free—than I am—now—this minute!”