“It is not mine. I wash my hands of it.”
“Oh, Peter—please don't talk like this.”
“You have chosen to enter into a conspiracy with Neuerman to wreck what little was left of my play. With Neuerman!” He emphasized the name. “I am through.”
“But, Peter—be sensible. Come to lunch and we'll straighten this up in five minutes. Nothing is being forced on you. I was asked...”
“You were brought here without my knowledge. And now—this!”
He strode away, leaving the manuscript in her hands.
She stood there in the door, following him with bewildered eyes until he had disappeared around a turn in the hall.
Peter, feeling strongly (if vaguely) that he had sacrificed everything for a principle, packed his suitcase, caught a train to Pittsburgh, and later, a sleeper for New York.