Still sponging them and trembling slightly she turned and explained in the high pitched voice of nervous excitement: "Alfred Perrott says I've promised to marry him, and I say I never did.

Sinclair says he'll shoot himself if I don't marry him, and I say, 'Well, shoot yourself!' But of course he doesn't--they never do.
And Sinclair got hold of me this afternoon and began bothering me to give an answer, and accusing me of flirting with Alfred Perrott, and told me I'd no heart, and was merely a Siren, oh, and quantities of pleasant things like that.

So at last I said to him, 'Well, Sinclair, you've said enough now.

You can just let me go.' And then he caught me and kissed me--the disgusting brute--I can still feel his nasty hairy face just there--as if he'd any right to, after what he'd said!" She sponged a spot on her left cheek energetically.
"I've never met a man that was fit to compare with a woman!" she cried; "they've no dignity, they've no courage, they've nothing but their beastly passions and their brute strength! Would any woman have behaved like that--if a man had said he didn't want her?
We've too much self-respect; we're infinitely finer than they are." She walked about the room, dabbing her wet cheeks with a towel.

Tears were now running down with the drops of cold water.
"It makes me angry," she explained, drying her eyes.
Rachel sat watching her.