“Arent you substituting your own for what you think might be my motives?”
“My mother hated me,” she stated flatly.
“Well, it isnt a world where love is abundant; substitutes are cheap and available. But hate—that’s a strong word. How do you know?” “I know. What does it matter how? I’m not unfeeling, like you.”
“Me? Now what have I done?”
“You don’t care about anyone. Not me or anyone else. You don’t want me; just any woman would do.”
I considered this. “I don’t think so, Barbara—” “See! You don’t think so. Youre not sure, and anyway you wouldnt hurt my feelings needlessly. Why don’t you be honest and tell the truth. You’d just as soon it was that streetwalker in New York. Maybe you’d rather. You miss her, don’t you?”
“Barbara, Ive told you a dozen times I never—” “And Ive told you a dozen times youre a liar! I don’t care. I really don’t care.”
“All right.”
“How can you be so phlegmatic? So unfeeling? Nothing means anything to you. Youre a real, stolid peasant. And you smell like one too, always reeking of the stable.”
“I’m sorry,” I said mildly; “I’ll try to bathe more often.”