And his hands seemed to be wanting to hide.

He wore old clothes, the trousers were torn at the knee, and the handkerchief tied round his throat was dirty; but his cap was still defiantly over one eye.

As she saw him, Clara felt guilty.

There was a tiredness and despair on his face that made her hate him, because it hurt her.
"He looks shady," said Paul.
But the note of pity in his voice reproached her, and made her feel hard.
"His true commonness comes out," she answered.
"Do you hate him ?" he asked.
"You talk," she said, "about the cruelty of women; I wish you knew the cruelty of men in their brute force.

They simply don't know that the woman exists." "Don't I ?" he said.
"No," she answered.
"Don't I know you exist ?" "About ME you know nothing," she said bitterly--"about ME!" "No more than Baxter knew ?" he asked.
"Perhaps not as much." He felt puzzled, and helpless, and angry.