The worst of it was he really seemed dispassionate. For the moment she could not question his sincerity. He went on—“As lately as last winter you would have carried all this off with a glorious flare. It's this suppression that has got to your nerves, as it was bound to. You're dodging, I'm afraid. You're refusing life.” He lit another cigarette. “It's damn puzzling. At heart you are, I know, a thoroughbred. I can't imagine you marrying for a living or to escape love. You're intelligent—too intelligent for that.” She moved restlessly, picked up the photograph and studied it again.
“You can't go back to that home of yours...”
“I'm not going back there,” she said.
“And you can't quit. We're too deep in.”
“Don't talk about that, Jacob!” she broke out. “I'm not going to quit.”
He dropped casually on the arm of her chair. One big hand rested on the chair-back, the other took hers and held it, with the picture, a little higher.
She seemed for an instant to shrink away; then, with slightly compressed lips, sat motionless.
“You think I am squeamish,” she said.
“Yes, I do.” They both looked at the photograph.
“Really, Sue—why on earth!... What is it, anyway? Are you all of a sudden ashamed of your body?”