Then terror clutched her.
Neither lips nor tongue were very flexible when she spoke.
"Duane--if you don't mind--would you go away now?
I've a wretched headache." He shrugged and stood up.
"It's curious," he said reflectively, "how utterly determined we seem to be to misunderstand each other.

If you would give me half a chance--well--never mind." "I wish you would go," she murmured, "I really am not well." She could scarcely hear her own voice amid the deafening tumult of her pulses.
Fright stiffened the fixed smile on her lips.

Her plight paralysed her for a moment.
"Yes, I'll go," he answered, smiling.

"I usually am going somewhere--most of the time." He picked up hat, gloves, and crop, looked down at her, came and stood at the table, resting one hand on the edge.
"We're pretty young yet, Geraldine....

I never saw a girl I cared for as I might have cared for you.