“Scream your head off,” said he, the slang phrase sounding almost courteous in this new quiet voice of his.
“There's not a person—alive—that could prove these pearls aren't my own.” Her voice dwelt on that one telling word, “alive,” with an almost caressing note of satisfaction.
He shook his head with a touch of impatience. And she was studying him, her quick thoughts darting sharply about—-darting in every conceivable direction—for an avenue of escape. She knew, however, as the moments passed and the pale youth stood his ground that there was only one. She had supposed him weak. It hardly seemed that her judgment could have gone so far wrong.
“You're cruel to me,” she said softly.
“Stand up.”
Now she obeyed. He drew near.
“I didn't think you'd turn out this sort, Rocky. You liked me at first.” She moved a hand, hesitatingly, within reach of his own. But he ignored it. “Aren't we going to see each other at Shanghai? Are you just going to be brutal with me—like this?.... I'd like to see you.”
“Will you take them off,” said he, “or must I?”
She turned to him, with curiously mixed passions coming to life in her face.
“Oh, my God, Rocky!” she cried very low, “haven't you any human feelings? Can you just come in here—into my own room—and rob me, without a decent word?.... Haven't I played fair with you? Haven't I kept out of your way? Haven't I?....” She moved close against him, slid her sensitively thin hands over his shoulders; looked straight up into his eyes, almost honestly. “Rocky, don't tell me you're this kind!”.... She was clinging to him now.