Some' things just come at a fellow, head down; and they have to be met, if we expect to look anybody in the face again." He shifted his head impatiently and stared again at the ceiling.

"I'd rather be dead than a coward," he said, speaking low.
"Oh, I know.

But--men are just beasts with clothes on their backs.

Did you hear them yelling, awhile ago?
That was when beasts just as human as they are under the skin, fought and killed each other, so those yelling maniacs could get a thrill or two." He searched his pockets for a match, found one and drew it glumly along the sole of his high-heeled, calfskin boot with its embroidered top of yellow silk on red morocco.
"That's what makes me sick to the stomach," he went on.

"They'll sit and watch you two, and they'll gloat over the spectacle--" A brisk tattoo of knuckles on the oaken door stopped him.