"You'll thank God for the day that Louis Latz proposed to me. Why, I'd rather cut off my right hand than marry a man who could ever live to learn such a—thing about me."
"But it's not fair. We'll have to explain to him, dear that we hope you're cured now, but—"
"If you do—if you do—I'll kill myself! I won't live to bear that! You don't want me cured. You want to get rid of me, to degrade me until I kill myself! If I was ever anything else than what I am now—to Louis Latz—anything but his ideal—Alma, you won't tell! Kill me, but don't tell—don't tell!"
"Why, you know I wouldn't, sweetheart, if it is so terrible to you. Never."
"Say it again."
"Never."
"As if it hasn't been terrible enough that you should have to know. But it's over, Alma. Your bad times with me are finished. I'm cured."
"But wait a little while, mama, just a year."
"No. No."
"A few months."