“I tell you—he’ll kill you,” repeated Carley, backing away until her weak knees came against the couch.
“What fer, I ask you?” he demanded.
“For this—this insult.”
“Huh! I’d like to know who’s insulted you. Can’t a man take an invitation to kiss an’ hug a girl—without insultin’ her?”
“Invitation!... Are you crazy?” queried Carley, bewildered.
“Nope, I’m not crazy, an’ I shore said invitation.... I meant thet white shimmy dress you wore the night of Flo’s party. Thet’s my invitation to get a little fresh with you, Pretty Eyes!”
Carley could only stare at him. His words seemed to have some peculiar, unanswerable power.
“Wal, if it wasn’t an invitation, what was it?” he asked, with another step that brought him within reach of her. He waited for her answer, which was not forthcoming.
“Wal, you’re gettin’ kinda pale around the gills,” he went on, derisively. “I reckoned you was a real sport.... Come here.”
He fastened one of his great hands in the front of her coat and gave her a pull. So powerful was it that Carley came hard against him, almost knocking her breathless. There he held her a moment and then put his other arm round her. It seemed to crush both breath and sense out of her. Suddenly limp, she sank strengthless. She seemed reeling in darkness. Then she felt herself thrust away from him with violence. She sank on the couch and her head and shoulders struck the wall.