"I am going to do it," she said. "That makes me utterly filthy, does it?"
He didn't say anything, didn't look up from the bottle. Her face got red, hard, cruel. Her voice was soft, cooing:
"It's just too bad that a gentleman of your purity, even if he is a bit consumptive, has to associate with a filthy bum like me."
"That can be remedied," he said slowly, getting up. He was laudanumed to the scalp.
Dinah Brand jumped out of her chair and ran around the table to him. He looked at her with blank dopey eyes. She put her face close to his and demanded:
"So I'm too utterly filthy for you now, am I?"
He said evenly:
"I said to betray your friends to this chap would be utterly filthy, and it would."
She caught one of his thin wrists and twisted it until he was on his knees. Her other hand, open, beat his hollow-cheeked face, half a dozen times on each side, rocking his head from side to side. He could have put his free arm up to protect his face, but didn't.
She let go his wrist, turned her back on him, and reached for gin and seltzer. She was smiling. I didn't like the smile.
He got up, blinking. His wrist was red where she had held it, his face bruised. He steadied himself upright and looked at me with dull eyes.
With no change in the blankness of his face and
